TiiE 



NATIONAL READER 

A 

SELECTION OF EXERCISES 



READING AND SPEAKING, 



TO FILL THE SAME PLACE 



SCHOOLS OF THE UNITED STATES, 

THAT IS HELD IN 

THOSE OF GREAT BRITAIN 

BY THE COMPILATIONS OF 

MURRAY, SCOTT, ENFIELD, MYLIUS, THOMPSON, 
EWING, AND OTHERS. 



BY JOHN PIERPONTj 

COMPILER OF THE AMErVcAN FIRST CLASS BOOK. 



i^dlJtoll 



rUBLISHED BY HILLIARD, GRx\Y, LITTLE, AND VVILKINS, 
AND RICHARDSON AND LORD, 

1827. 



VEiizd 
/SZ7 



DISTRICT OP MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT: 

District Clerk's Office. 

Be it remembered, That on the eleventh day of June, A. D. 1827, in the fifty-first 
year of the Independence of the United States of America, John Pierfont, of the said 
District, has deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he cjairas as 
proprietor, in the words following, to wit .- 

" The National Reader ; a Selection of Exercises in Reading and Speaking, designed 
to fill the same Place in the Schools of the United States, that is held in those of Great 
Britain by the Compilations of Murray, Scott, Enfield, Mylius, Thompson, Ewing, and 
others. By John Pierpont, Compiler of the American First Class Book." 

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, " An Act for 
the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the 
authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned :" and also 
to an act, entitled, " An Act supplementary to an act, entitled. An Act for the encour- 
agement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors 
and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned ; and extending the 
benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other 
prints." 
- JOHN W. DAVIS, 

Clerk of the District of Massachusetts. 



Exchange 
Bi-own University Library 



I 



PREFACE. 



The favour shown by the public to the " American First Class Book" has 
encouraged me to proceed to the execution of a purpose, that I formed while 
preparing that book for the press — the compilation of a Reader, for the 
Common Schools of the United States, which should be, — what no school 
book compiled in Great Britain is. — in some degree at least, American. 

It cannot, indeed, be urged as an objection to a British school book, 
that it is not adapted to American schools ; that it consists exclusively of the 
productions of British authors ; that it abounds in delineations of British 
manners, — in descriptions of British scenery, — in eulogies of British heroes 
and statesmen, — in selections from British history, — and in pieces, of which 
it is the direct aim to impress the mind of the reader with a deep sense of the 
excellence of British institutions, and of the power and glory of the British 
empire. A book of this character is moving in its proper sphere, and accom- 
plishing the purpose of its author, when it is passing from hand to hand, 
among the children of Great Britain, introducing them to an acquaintance 
with their native land, and with those who have adorned it by their genius 
or their virtues, and thus exciting within them a love of their country, and 
a resolution to become its ornaments in their turn. That effect produced by 
the book, its author has gained his object, and has established his character, 
and secured his reward, as a benefactor of his country in one of its most 
valuable interests : and it derogates nothing from his merit or fame, to say 
that his book is not well adapted to those for whose use he did not intend it j 
for this is but saying that he has not done what he has not attempted to do. 
It is no disparagement to English laws, to say that they will not do for us. 
They were not made for us. Nor is it a disparagement to English school 
books, to say that they are not adapted to American schools. There is not 
one, among them all, that was designed for American schools. To the 
compiler of an American School Reader, it would, no doubt, be flattering, 
to know that his book had found such favour in England, as to be introduced 
extensively into common schools there. But, though this might be a little 
flattering to him, it would, probably, seem to him not a little strange, that they 
had not books of their own in England, better fitted to the schools, under 
a monarchical form of government, than the compilation of a republican 
foreigner, which was never intended for them. And would it be to the 
honour of English literature, or of those men in England, who feel an interest 
in the prosperity of the state, — and, consequently, an interest in seeing the 
young so educated, that they may worthily filf its places of honour and 
trust, — to admit, by the general introduction of foreign compilations into 
their schools, that there is no man in England able to make a good school 
book, and, at the same time, willing to submit to the labour of making one ? 
This country has political institutions of its own j— institutions which the 
men of each successive generation must uphold. But this they cannot do, 
unless they are early made to understand and value them. It has a historv 



iv PREFACE. 

of its own, of which it need not be ashamed ; — fathers, and heroes, and sages, 
of its own, whose deeds and praises are worthy of being " said or eung" by 
even the ''mighty masters of the lay," — and with whose deeds and praises, 
by being made familiar in our childhood, we shall be not the less qualified 
to act well our part, as citizens of a republic. Our country, both physically 
and morally, has a character of its own. Should not something of that 
character be learned by its children while at school ? Its mountains, and 
prairies, and lakes, and rivers, and cataracts, — its shores and hill-tops, that 
Avere early made sacred by the dangers, and sacrifices, and deaths, of the 
devotit and the daring — it does seem as if these were worthy of being held 
up, as objects of interest, to the young eyes that, from year to year, are 
opening upon them, and worthy of being linked, with all their sacred associa- 
tions, to the young affections, which, sooner or later, must be bound to them, 
or they must eease to be — what they now are — the inheritance and abode of 
a free people. 

It has been my object to make this book — what it is called — a National 
Reader. By this I do not mean that it consists, entirely, of American 
productions, or that the subjects of the different lessons are exclusively 
American. I do not understand that a national spirit is an exchtsive 
s^pirit. The language of pure moral sentiment, the out-pourings of a poet- 
ic al spirit, the lessons of genuine patriotism, and of a sublime and catho- 
lic religion, — let them have proceeded from what source they may, — not 
a few pieces, especially, which have long held a place in English compila- 
tions, — I have adopted freely into this collection, and believe that I have 
enriched it by them. I trust that there will be found in it not a line or a 
thought, that shall offend the most scrupulous delicacy, or that shall give any 
parent occasion to tremble for the morals of either a son or a daughter ; and 
i hope that a regard for my own interest, if no higher coiisideration, may 
have prevented my being unmindful of that section of the late laiu of this 
cominoTiivealih, which provides, that no conamittee of a public school shall 
ever "direct any school books to be purchased, or used in any of the schools 
imder their superintendence, which are calculated to favour any particular 
religious sect or tenet." 

In regard to rules or directions for reading, the same considerations 
which prevented my filling up any part of the American First Class Book 
with them, have induced me to introduce none of them into this collection 
of exercises. Three things only are required to make a good reader. He 
must read so that what he reads shall, in the first place, be heard ; in the 
i»econd, that it shall be understood; and, in the third, that it shall be felt. 
If a boy has voice, and intelligence, and taste enough to do all this, then, 
under the personal guidance and discipline of a teacher who can read well, 
he will learn to read well ; but if he has not, he may study rules, and pore 
over the doctrine of cadences and infiections; till " chaos come again," — 
he v.'ill never be a good reader. 

In the humble hope that this compilation may contribute something to the 
accomplishing of the young, in this country, in the art of reading and 
speaking well,— something to the improvement of their taste, the cultivation 
of their moral sense and religious affections, and, thus, something to their 
preparation for an honourable discharge of their duties in this life, and for 
"' glory, honour, and immortality," in the life that is to come,— I submit it to 
the disposal of the public, and ask for it only the favour of which it may be 
thought worthy. 

Boston, June, 1827. ' 



I 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



LESSONS IN PROSE. 

Ths names of American authors are in small capitals. 
Lesson. Page- 

1. Discovery of America, abridged from Robertson. 9 

2. A good Scholar May. 14 

3. Tlie good Schoolmaster Fuller. 16 

4. Attention and Industry rewarded Berquin. 18 

5. On Lying Chesterfield. 20 

6. Portrait of a Patriarch, selected from Job, by Addison. 21 

7. An uncharitable Spirit rebuked A Rabbinical Tale. 22 

11. Religious Contemplation of the Works of God Moodie. 26 

12. Criminality of Intemperance H- Ware, Jr. 27 

13. The Worm Missourian. 29 

14. Debt and Credit Trenton Emporium. 31 

15. The Indians of North America. . .Cincinnati Nat. Republican. 33 

16. Story and Speech of Logan Jefferson. 35 

20. Grandeur and Interest of American Antiquities T. Flint. 43 

22. The American Indian, as he was, and as he is .C. Sprague. 47 

23. The Grave a Place of Rest Mackenzie. 49 

28. Obedience to the Commands of God rewarded Moodie. 56 

29. Promises of Religion to the Young Alison. 57 

30. On the Swiftness of Time Johnson. 68 

33. Obidah,— the Journey of a Day Id. 62 

34. The Vision of Mirza Addison. 66 

37. The Widov/ and her Son C. Edwards. 72 

38. The Little Man in Black W. Irving. 75 

39. The same, concluded Ibid. 78 

40. Danger of being a good Singer London Literary Chronicle. 82 

45. The Voice of the Seasons Alison. 90 

46. Anecdote of Richard Jackson London Quarterly Revieiv. 91 

47. Description of Niagara Falls Howison. 92 

49. Cataract of Terni Anonymous. 98 

50. A West Indian Landscape Malte-Brun. 101 

51. Devotional Influences of Natural Scenery .. Bicc&wood's Ed. Mag. 102 

52. Passage of the Shenandoah through the Blue Ridge. . .Jefferson. 105 

68. The Funeral of MariaL r^-".' • •) Mackenzie. Ill 

59. A Leaf from " The Life of a Looking-Glaes" Miss J. Taylor. 113 

64. Industry necessary to Genius V. Knox. 121 

65. Story of Matilda. Goldsmith. 123 

67, Early Recollections Netv Monthly Magazine. 126 

72. Cruelty to Animals reproved Mavor. 135 

73. Excessive Severity in Punishments censured Goldsmith. 137 

77. Religion the Basis of Society .Channing, 142 

78. Punishment of a Liar .Bible, 143 

1* , 



vi CONTENTS. 

Lesson. Page. 

79. Claims of the Jews , Noel. 145 

80. Happiness of Devotional Habits and Feelings Wellbeloved. 147 

86. Folly of deferring Religious Duties Ibid. 136 

87. Religion the best Preparation for Duty in Life . . .^ Norton. 158 

88. The Young of every Rank entitled to Education. . .Greenwood. 160 

93. The. Bells of St. Mary's, Limerick London Literary Gazette. 168 

94. Jerusalem and the surrounding Country 

Letters from the East, Banks. 171 

95. The same, concluded iftid. 175 

98. Mount Sinai Ibid. 180 

iOO. Religious Education necessary Greenwood. 185 

101. Importance of Science to a Mechanic G. B. Emerson. 188 

102. Story of Rabbi Akiba From Hurioitz's Hebrew Tales. 190 

107. First Settlement of the Pilgrims in New England, abridged 

and compiled from . . . . , Robertson and Neal. 196 

108. Extract from an Oration delivered at Plymouth E. Everett. 200 

109. Extract from the same Ibid. 201 

110. Claim of the Pilgrims to the Gratitude and Reverence of 

their Descendants O. Dewey. 205 

114. Character of the Puritan Fathers Greenwood. 21,3 

1 15. The same, concluded Ibid. 216 

116. Extract from a Speech on the American Colonies. .Lord Chatham. 219 

117. Extract from a Speech on British Aggressions. .Patrick Henry. 221 

118. Account of the Battles of Lexington and Concord ». Botta. 223 

1 19. The same, conci,uded Ibid. 227 

120. Extract from an Oration delivered at Concord E. Everett. 229 

127. Account of the Battle of Bunker's Hill Botta. 242 

128, The same, concluded Ibid. 246 

330, Extract from an Address on Bunker's Hill D. Webster, 250 

43l4^Extract from the same Ibid. 252 

£tract from a Speech on Dinas Island Phillips. 257 

^ture of True Eloquence. Extract from a Discourse in 

commemoration of Adams and Jefferson D. Webster, 260 

136. Extract from the same Discourse Ibid, 261 

137 Extract from the same Ibid, 263 



I.ESSONS IN POETRY. 



3. Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm Addison. 23 

9, Morning Meditations Haickesworth. 24 

10. Nature's Music Anonymoies. 25 

17, Geehale, An Indian Lament New York Statesman. 36 

18, Fall of Tecumseh Id. 38 

19, Monument Mountain Brya-t. 39 

2L Mounds on tlie Western Rivers M. Feint, 46 

24, On planting Flowers on the Graves of Friends. . .Blackwood's Mag. 51 

25, Thoughts in Prospect of Death ^ Henry K. White. 52 

26. The Grave T Bernard JBarton. 63 

27. The Fall of the Leaf Milonov, translated b.y,Bowring.. 64 

31. Linos on returning to one's Native Country Anqnymons. 60 

32. " He shall fly away as a Dream" .Ajion. 62 

35. The World we have not seen Anon. 70 

56, The Better Land .Mrs. Hemans. 7J 



CONTENTS. vii 

Lesson. Pa^e, 

41. The Country Clergyman Goldsmith, 84 

42. Parody on " The Country Clergyman" Blackwood's Ed. Mag. 86 

43. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize Goldsmith. 88 

44. The Sick Man and the Angel Gay. 89 

48. Niagara Falls,— from the Spanish. . ..U. S. Literary Gazette. 96 

53. The Blind Boy. Bloomjield. 106 

54. A Thought on Death Mrs. Barbauld. 107 

55. The Old Man's Funeral Bryant. 107 

56. Sunday Evening Bovyiing. 109 

57. The Star of Bethlehem J. G. Percival. 110 

60. The silent Expression of Nature Anonymous. 117 

61. A Thought Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. 118 

62. Fidelity Wordsworth. 119 

63. Solitude Henry K. White. 121 

m. The Man of Ross Pope. 125 

68. On v^isiting a Scene of Childhood . . .Blackwood's Ed. Magazine. 129 

69. The/littie Graves Anonymous. 131 

70. Life] and Death New Monthly Magazine. 133 

71. The l^uvial of Arnold Willis. 134 

74. Address to Liberty Coivper. 138 

75. The Hermit Beattie. 139 

76. Hymn to the Stars Monthly Repository. 141 

81. The Seasons 3Irs. Barbauld. 149 

82. March Bryant. 151 

83. April. J Longfellow. 152 

84. May ; J. G. Percival. 153 

85. The Voice of Spring 3Trs. Hemans. 153 

89. Childhood and Manhood. An Apologue Crabbe. 162 

90. The Skies Bryant. 164 

91. Address to the Stars New Monthly Magazine. 165 

92. Song of the Stars .Bryant. 166 

96. " That ye, through his poverty, might be rich"' W. Ritssell. 178 

97. Elijah fed by Ravens Grahame. 179 

99. The Summit of Mount Sinai Montgomery. 184 

103. Alice Fell \" Wordsworth. 191 

104. The yEolian Harp European Magazine. 193 

105. Burial oi Sir John Moor^e Anonymous. 194 

106. War unnatural and unchristian Mellen. 195 

111, Song of the Pilgrims V T. C. Up ham. 210 

112, Landing of the jpilgrrms . . . .^ Mrs. Hemans. 211 

113, The Pilgrim Fathers . . fT?. ,_^ Pierpont. 212 

121. Elegy, in a Country Churchyard .'Tv.-r77TT777T>^^..^^ Gray. 231 

122. The Grave of Korner MrsTHemans. 235 

123. God's First Temples. A Plymn Bryant. 236 

124. Hymn of Nature Peabody. 239 

125. Lines on revisiting the Country Bryant. 241 

126. Lines on a Beehive Monthly Repository. 242 

129. Warren's Address before the Battle of Bunker's Hill. .Pierpont. 250 

132. Hymn, commemorative of the Battle of Bunker's Hill Id. 254 

133. " What's hallowed Ground ?" Campbell. 255 

13a. The School Boy Amulet. 266 

139. Stanzas addressed to the Greeks Anonymaus. 267 

140. Spanish Patiiot's Song Anon. 268 

141. The Three Warnings Mrs. Thrale. 269 

142. The Mariner's Dream ... Dimond. 212 

M3. Absalom Wilhs. 274 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



The navies of American authors are in Italic. 



Lessons. 

Addison 6, 8, 34. 

Alison 29,45. 

Amulet 133. 

Anonymous ... 10, 31, 32, 35, 49, 6G, 
69, 105, 139, 140. 

Banks 94, 95. 98. 

Barbauld, Mrs. L 54, 81. 

Barton, Bernard 26. 

Beattie 75. 

Berquin 4. 

Bible 6, 78. 

Bloomfield „ . . .53. 

Botta 118, 119, 127, 128. 

Bowring 27, 56. 

Bryant. .19, 55, 82, 90, 92, 123, 125. 

Campbell 133. 

Channing, W. E 77. 

Chatham, Lord,— W. Pitt 116. 

Chesterfield 5. 

Chronicle, London Literary ... .40. 

Cowper 74. 

Crabbe 89. 

Deioey, Orville 110. 

Dimond 142. 

Edwards, Charles 37. 

Emerson, G. B 101. 

Emporium, ( Trenton) 14. 

Everett, Edward 108, 109, 120. 

Flint, T 20. 

M 21. 

Fuller 3. 

Gay 44. 

Gazette, London Literary 93. 

United States Literary . . 48. 

Goldsmith 41, 43, 65, 73. 

Grahanie 97. 

Gray 121. 

Greenwood, F.W.P. .88, 100, 114, 
115. 



Hawkesworth 9. 

Heraans, Mrs. F. . .36, 85, 112, 122. 

lienry, Patrick 117. 

Howison 47. 



living, Washington 



58, 39. 



Lessong. 

Jefferson, Thomas 16, 52. 

Johnson, Dr, Samuel 30, 33. 

Knox, Vicesimus ... . . .64, 

Longfellow, H. W. 83. 

Mackenzie 23, 58. 

Magazine, New Monthly. .67, 70, 91. 

Blackwood's Edin... 24, 

42,51,61,68. 

European 104. 

Malte-Brun 60. 

Mavor 72. 

May 2. 

Mellen 106. 

3Iilonov, translated by Bowring. .27. 

Missourian 13. 

Montgomery 99. 

Moodie 11, 28. 

Neal and Robertson (abridged) . . 107. 

Noel 79. 

Norton, A 87. 

Peabody, W. O. B 124. 

Percival, J. G 67, 84. 

Phillips 1^. 

Pierpont, J 113, 129, 132. 

Pope....1 66. 

Rabbinical 'tales 7, 102. 

Repository, Monthly 76, 126. 

Republican, Nat. {Cincinnati) . .15. 
Review, London Quarterly ... .46. 

Robertson, (abridged) 1. 

and Neal (abridged). 107. 

Russell, WilKam 96. 

Sprague, Charles 22. 

Statesmayi, New York 17, 18. 

Taylor, Miss Jane 59. 

Thrale,Mr3 14L 

UphamT. C 111. 

Ware, H.Jr 12. 

Webster, D. .130, 131, 135, 136, 137. 

Wellbeloved 80, 86. 

White, Henry K 25, 63. 

Willis 71,143. 

Wordsworth 62, 103. 



NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON I. 
Discovery of America. — Abridged from Robertson. 

On Friday, the third day of August, in the year one 
thousand four hundred and ninety-two, Columbus set sail 
from Palos, in Spain, a little before sunrise, in presence of a 
vast crowd of spectators, who sent up their supplications to 
keavea for the prosperous issue of the voyage ; which they 
wished, rather than expected. 

His squadron, if it merit that name, consisted of no more 
than three small vessels, — the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and 
the Nigna, — having on board ninety men, mostly sailors, 
together with a few adventurers, who followed the fortune 
of Columbus, and some gentlemen of the Spanish court, 
whom the queen appointed to accompany him. 

He steered directly for the Canary Islands; from which, 
after refitting iSis ships, and supplying himself with fresh 
provisions, he tool, iiis departure on the sixth day of Sep- 
tember. *^Here the voyage of discovery may properly be said 
to have begun ; for Columbus, holding his course due west, 
left immediately the usual track of navigation, and stretched 
into unfrequent ed and unknown^seas. 

The first day, asSt^was very calm, he made but little 
way ; but, on the second" he i^'st sigRt of the Canaries ; and 
many of the sailors, already dejected and dismayed, when 
they contemplated the boldness of the undertaking, began 
to beat their breasts, and to shed tears, as if they were never 
more to behold land. Columbus comforted them with as- 
surances of success, and the prospect of vast wealth in 
those opulent regions, whither he was conducting/them. 

This early discovery of the spirit of his followers taught 
Columbus that he must prepare to struggle, not only with tho 



10 NATIONAL READER. 

unavoidable difficulties which might be expected from the 
nature of his undertaking, but with such as were likely to 
arise from the ignorance and timidity of the people under 
his command ; and he perceived, that the art of governing 
the minds of men would be no less requisite for accomplish- 
ing the discoveries, which he had in view, than naval skill 
and an enterprising courage. 

Happily for himself, and for the country by which he was 
employed, he joined to the atrdent temper and inventive 
genius of a projector, virtues of another species, which are 
rarely united with them. He possessed a thorough know- 
ledge of mankind, an insinuating address, a patient perseve- 
rance in executing any plan, the perfect government of his 
own passions, and the talent of acquiring the direction of 
those of other men. 

All these qualities, which formed him for command, were 
accompanied v/itli that superior knowledge of his profession 
which begets confidence, in times of difficulty and danger. 
To unskilful Spanish sailors, accustomed only to coasting 
voyages in the Mediterranean, the maritime science of Co- 
lumbus, the fruit of thirty years' experience, appeared im- 
mense. As soon as they put to sea, he regulated every 
thing by his sole authority ; he superintended the execution 
of every order, and, allowing himself only a few hours for 
sleep, he was, at all other times, upon deck. 

As his course lay through seas which had not been visited 
before, the sounding line, or instruments for observation, were 
continually in his hands. He attended to the motion of the 
tides and currents, watched the flight of birds, the appear- 
ance of fishes, of sea-weeds, and of every thing that floated 
on the waves, and accurately noted every occurrence in a 
journal that he kept. 

By the fourteenth day of September, the fleet was above 
two hundred leagues to the west of the Canary Isles, a 
greater distance from land than any Spaniard had ever been 
before that time. Here the sailors were struck with an ap- 
pearance no less astonishing than new. They observed that 
the magnetic needle, in their compasses, did not point exact- 
ly to the north star, but varied towards the west. 

This appearance, which is now familiar, filled the com- 
panions of Columbus with terror. They were in an ocean 
boundless and unknown, nature itself seemed to be altered, and 
the only guide, which they had left, was about to fail them. 
Columbus, with no less quickness than ingenuity, invented 



NATIONAL READER. U 

a reason for this appearance, which, though it did not satisfy 
himself, seemed so plausible to them, that it dispelled their 
fears, and silenced their murmurs. 

On the first of October, they were aboTit seven hundred 
and seventy leagues west of the Canaries. They had now 
been above three weeks at sea: all their prognostics of 
discovery, drawn from the flight of birds, and other cir- 
cumstances, had proved fallacious, and their prospect of suc- 
cess seemed now to be as distant as ever. The spirit of 
discontent and of mutiny began to manifest itself among the 
sailors, and, by degrees, the contagion spread from ship to ship. 

All agreed, that Columbus should be compelled, by force, 
to return, while their crazy vessels were yet in a condition 
to keep the sea ; and some even proposed to throw him 
overboard, as the most expeditious method of getting rid of 
his remonstrances, and of securing a seasonable return to 
their native land, 

Columbus was fully sensible of his perilous situation. He 
perceived that it would be of no avail to have recourse to 
any of his former expedients, to lead on the hopes of his 
companions, and that it was impossible to rekindle any 
zeal for the success of the expedition, among men, in whose 
breasts fear had extinguished every generous sentiment. 

He found it necessary to soothe passions, which he could 
no longer command, and to give way to a torrent too impe- 
tuous to be checked. He accordingly promised ..his men, 
that he would comply with their request, provided they 
would accompany him, and obey his commands, for three 
days longer ; and if, during that time, land were not disco- 
vered, he would then abandon the enterprise, and direct his 
course towards Spain. 

Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient as they were 
of returning to their native country, this proposition did not 
appear to them unreasonable : nor did Columbus hazard much 
in confining himself to a time so short ; for the pres'ages of 
discovering land had become so numerous and promising, 
that he deemed them infallible. 

For some days, the sounding line had reached the bottom ; 
and the soil, which it brought up, indicated land to be at 
no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and w^ere 
composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such land birds as 
could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. 

The crew of the Pin ta observed a cane floating, which 
seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of 
timber, artificially carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna 



12 NATIONAL READER. 

took up the branch of a tree, with red berries, perfectly fresh. 
The clouds, around the setting sun, assumed a new appear- 
ance ; the air was more mild and warm; and, during night, 
the wind became unequal and variable. 

From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of 
being near land, that, on the evening of the eleventh of 
October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails 
to be furled, and strict watch to be kept, lest the ship should 
be driven ashore in the night. During this interval of sus- 
pense and expectation, no man shut his eyes ; all kept upon 
deck, gazing intently towards that quarter where they ex- 
pected to discover the land, which had been so long the ob- 
ject of their wishes. 

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on 
the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately 
pointed it out to two of his people. All three saw it in mo- 
tion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little after 
midnight, the joyful sound of Land! land! was heard from the 
Pinta. But, having been so often deceived by fallacious 
appearances, they had now become slow of belief, and 
waited, in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience, for 
the return of day. 

As soon as morning dawned, their doubts and fears were 
dispelled. They beheld an island about two leagues to the 
north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, 
and \vaccred with many rivulets, presented^to them the as- 
pect of a delightful country. The crew of the Pinta in- 
stantly began a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were 
joined, by those of the other ships, with tears of joy, and 
transports of congratulation. 

This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act 
of justice to their commander. They threw themselves at 
the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation, 
mingled with reverence. They implored him to pardon 
their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had cre- 
ated him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often 
obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and 
passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme 
to another, they now pronounced the man, whom they had so 
lately reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired, by Hea- 
ven, with sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to 
accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conceptions 
of all former ages. 

As soon as the sun arose, all the boats were manned and 
armed. They rowed towards the island with their, colours 



NATIONAL READER. 13 

displayed, warlike music, and other martial pomp ; and, as 
they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a mul- 
titude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had 
drawn together, and whose attitudes and gestures expressed 
wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which pre- 
sented themselves to their view. 

Columbus was the first European who set foot in the 
New World which he had discovered. He landed in a rich 
dress, and with a naked sword in his hand. His men fol- 
lowed, and, kneeling down, they all kissed the ground which 
they had long desired to see. 

They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves 
before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voy- 
age to such a happy issue. They then took solemn pos- 
session of the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, 
w^ith all the formalities with which the Portuguese were 
accustomed to take possession of their new discoveries. 

The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded 
by many of the natives, who gazed, in silent admiration, 
upon actions which they could not comprehend, and of 
which they did not foresee the consequences. The dress 
of the Spaniards, the whiteness of their skins, their beards, 
their arms, appeared strange and surprising. 

The vast machines, in which they had traversed the 
ocean, that seemed to move upon the water with wings, and 
uttered a dreadful sound, resembling thunder, accompanied 
with lightning and smoke, struck them with such terror, that 
they began to respect their new guests as a superior order 
of beings, and concluded that they were children of the sun, 
who had descended to visit the earth. 

The Europeans were hardly less amazed at the scene now 
before them. Every herb, and shrub, and tree, was differ- 
ent from those which flourished in Europe. The soil seem- 
ed to be rich, but bore few marks of cultivation. The cli- 
mate, even to Spaniards, felt warm, though extremely de- 
lightful. 

The inhabitants were entirely naked : their black hair, 
long and uncurled, floated upon their shoulders, or was 
bound in tresses around their heads : they had no beards ; 
their complexion was of a dusky copper colour; their 
features singular, rather than disagreeable; their aspect 
gentle and timid. 

Though not tall, they were well shaped and active. 
Their faces, and other parts of their body, were fantasti- 
2 



14 NATIONAL READER. 

cally painted with glariD^' colours. They were shy at first, 
through fear, but soon became familiar with the Spaniards, 
and, with transports of joy, received from them hawks' bells, 
glass beads, and other baubles ; m return for which, they 
gave such provisions as they had, and some cotton yarn, 
the only commodity of value which they could produce. 

Towards evening, Columbus returned to his ships, accom- 
panied by many of the islanders in their boats, which they 
called canoes ; and, though rudely formed out of the trunk 
of a single tree, they rowed them with surprising dexterity. 

Thus, in the first interview between the inhabitants of 
the Old World and those of the New, every thing was con- 
ducted amicably, and to their mutual satisfaction. The for- 
mer, enlightened and ambitious, formed already vast ideas 
with respect to the advantages which they might derive from 
those regions that began to open to their view. The latter, 
simple and undiscerning, had no foresight of the calamities 
and desolation, which were now approaching their country. 



LESSON IL 
A good Scholar. — May. 



[(^ A GOOD scholar is known by his obedience to the rules 
of the school, and to the directions of his teacher. He 
does not give his teacher the trouble of telling him the same 
thing over and over again ; but says or does immediately 
whatever he is desired. His attendance at the proper time 
of school is always punctual. Fearful of being too late, as 
soon as the hour of meeting approaches, he hastens to the 
school, takes his place quietly, and instantly attends to his 
lesson. He is remarkable for his diligence and attention. 
He reads no other book than that which he is desired to 
read by his master. He studies no lessons but those which 
are appointed for the day. 

He takes no toys from his pocket to amuse himself or 
others ; he has no fruit to eat, no sweetmeats to give away. — 
If any of his companions attempt to take off his eye or his 
mind from his lesson, he does not give heed to them. If 
they still try to make him idle, he bids them let him alone, 
and do their own duties. And if, after this, they go on to 
disturb and vex him, he informs the teacher, that, both for 



NATIONAL READER. 15 

llieir sake and for liis own, he may interfere, and, by a wise 
reproof, prevent the continuance of such improper and hurt- 
ful conduct. 

When strangers enter the school, he does not stare rudely 
in their faces; but is as, attentive to his lesson as if no one 
were present but the master. If they speak to him, he 
answers with modesty and respect. Y/hen the scholars in 
Ills class are reading, spelling, or repeating any thing, he is 
very attentive, and studies to learn by listening to them. 
His great desire is to improve, and therefore he is never 
klle^ — not even when he might be so, and yet escape detec- 
tion and punishment. 

He minds his business as well when his teacher is out of 
sight, as when he is standing near him, or looking at him. 
If possible, he is more diligent when his 'teacher happens 
for a little to be away from him, that he may show " all 
good lidelity" in this, as in every thing else. He is desir- 
ous of adding to the knowledge he has already gained, of 
learning something useful every day. And he is not satis- 
fied if a day passes, without making him v/iser than he was 
before, in those things which will be of real benefit to him. 

When he has a difficult lesson to learn, or a hard task to 
perform, he does not fret or murmur at it. He knows 
that his master would not have prescribed it to him, unless 
he had thought that he was able for it, and that it would do 
him good. ||e therefore sets about it readily; and he en- 
courages himself with such thoughts as these : " My parents 
vvili be very glad Vvdien they hear that I have learned this 
diiiicult lesson, and performed this hard task. My teacher, 
also, will be pleased with me for my diligence. And I 
myself shall be comfortable and happy when the exercise is 
finished. The sooner and the more heartily I apply myself 
to it, the sooner and the better it wdll be done." 

When he reads, his words are pronounced so distinctly, 
that you can easily hear and understand him. His copy 
book is fairly written, and free from blots and scrawls. His 
letters are clear apd^tril, and his strokes broad and fine. 
His figures are well made,, accurately cast up, and neatly put 
down in their regular order ; and his accounts are, in gene- 
ral, free from mistakes. 

He not only improves himself, but he rejoices in the im- 
provement of others. He loves to hear them commended, 
and to see them rewarded. " If I do well," he says, " I 
shall be commended and rewarded too ; and if all did well, 



16 NATIONAL READER. 

what a happy school would ours be ! We ourselves would 
be much more comfortable ; and our master would have a 
great deal less trouble and distress than he has on account 
of the idleness and inattention, of which too many of us are 
guilty." 

His books he is careful to preserve from every thing 
that might injure them. Having finished his lesson, he 
puts them in their proper place, and does not leave them to 
be tossed about, and, by that means, torn and dirtied. He 
never forgets to pray for the blessing of God on himself, 
on his school-fellows, and on his teacher ; for he knows that 
the blessing of God is necessary to make his education truly 
useful to him, both in this life, and in that which is to come. 

And, finally, it is his constant endeavour to behave well 
when he is out of school, as well as when he is in it. He 
remembers that the eye of God is ever upon him, and that 
he must at last give an account of himself to the great Judge 
of all. And, therefore, he studies to practise, at all times, 
the religious and moral lessons that he receives from his 
master, or that he reads in the Bible, or that he meets with 
in the other books that are given him to peruse ; and to 
" walk in all the commandments and ordinances of the 
Lord, blameless."! 



LESSON HL ^ 

The good Schoohnaster. — ^Fuller. 

There isjyscarce any profession in the commonwealth 
more necessary, which is so slightly performed, as that of a 
s(Sioolmaster : the reasons whereof I conceive to be these. 
First, young scholars make thts calling their refuge ; yea, 
perchance, before they have taken any degree in the univer- 
sity, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if nothing 
else were required to set up this profession, but only a rod 
and a ferule. 

Secondly, others, who are able, use it only as a passage 
to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present for- 
tune, till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves 
to some more gainful calling. 

Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with 
the miserable reward which, in some places, they receive ; 



. NATIONAL READER. 17 

being masters to the children, and slaves to their parents. 
But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. 

He stiidieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they 
their books, and ranks their dispositions into several forms. 
And, though it may seem difficult for him, in a great school, 
to descend to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters 
may quickly make a grammar of boys 'Matures, and reduce 
them all (saving some few exceptions) to these general 
rules : 

1. Those that are ingenioiis and industrious. The con- 
junction of two such planets iri a youth presa'ges much good 
unto him. To such a lad a frdwn may be a whipping, and 
a whipping a death-y yea, where his master whips him 
once, shame whips him all the week xafter. Such natures 
he useth with all gen,tleness. ^ 

2. Those that arejiigenkrns and idle. These think, with 
the hare in the fable, that, running with snails, (so they count 
the rest of their school-fellov/s,) they shall come soon enough 
to the post; though sleeping a good while before their start- 
ing. 0, a good rod would finely take them napping. 

3. Those that be dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger 
they be, the. more lees they have when they are new. Many 
boys are muddy-head^ till they be clarified with age, and 
such afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both 
bright, and squared, and pointed, by nature, and yet are soft 
and worthier ; whereas orient ones in India are rough and 
rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth 
acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country ; and 
therefore their dulness is at first to be borne with, if they 
be diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten him- 
self, who beats nature in a boy for a fault. 

4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. 
Correction may reform the latter, not amend the former. 
All the whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge 
on that which hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth 
over to other professions. Shipwrights and boatmakers will 
choose those crooked pieces of timber, which other carpen- 
ters refuse. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching ; not 
leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces 
his precepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the 
nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars may go. along^ 
with him. He is moderate in inflicting even deserved cor- 
rection. 

2* 



IS NATIONAL READER. 

Many a schoolmaster seemeth to understand, that school- 
ing his pupils meaneth scolding and scoring them; and 
therefore, in bringing them forward, he useth the lash more 
than the leading string. 

Such an Orbilius* mars more scholars than he makes. 
The tyr'anny of such a man hath caused the tongues of 
many to stammer, which spake plainly by nature, and whose 
stuttering, at first, was nothing else but fears quavering on 
their speech at their master's presence. 



LESSON IV. 
Attention and Industry rewarded. — Berquin. 

A RICH husbandman had two sons, the one exactly a year 
older than the other. The very day the second was born, 
he set, in the entrance of his orchard, two young apple-trees, 
of equal size, which he cultivated with the same care, and 
which grew so equally, that no person could perceive the 
least difference between them. 

When his children were capable of handling garden tools, 
he took them, one fine morning in spring, to see these two 
trees, which he had planted for them, and called after their 
names ; and, when they had sufficiently admired Uieir growth, 
and the number of blossoms that covered thlb, he said, 
" My dear children, I give you these trees : you see they 
qj;g.m good condition. They will thrive as much by your 
«;are, as they will decline by your negligence ; and their fruit 
will reward you in proportion to your labour." 

The youngest, named Edmund, was industrious and at- 
tentive. He busied himself in clearing his tree of insects 
that would hurt it, and he propped up its stem, to prevent its 
taking a wrong bent. He loosened the earth about it, that 
the warmth of the sun, and the moisture of the dews, might 
cherish the roots. His mother had not tended him more 
carefully in his infancy, than he tended his young apple- 
tree. 

His brother, Moses, did not imitate his example. He 
spent a great deal of time on a mount that was near, throw- 

* Orbilnts, — « grammarian of Beneventimi. who was the first instnirter of the 
poet Horace. He was naturaUy of a severe disposition, of which his pupils often 
felt the effects. 



NATIONAL READEB. 19 

ing stones at the passengers in the road. He went among 
all the little dirty boys in the neighbourhood, to box with 
them ; so that he was often seen with broken shins and 
black eyes, from the kicks and blows he received in his 
quarrels. 

In short, he neglected his tree so far, that he never 
thought of it, till, one day in autumn, he, by chance, saw 
Edmund's tree so full of apples, streaked with purple and 
gold, that, had it not been for the props which supported its 
branches, the weight of its fruit must have bent it to the 
ground. 

Struck with the sight of so fine a tree, he hastened to his 
own, hoping to find as large a crop upon it ; but, to his great 
surprise, he saw scarcely any thing, except brunches covered 
with moss, and a few yellow, withered leaves. Full of pas- 
sion and jealousy, he ran to his father, and said, " Father, 
what sort of a tree is that which you have given me ? It is 
a^ dry as a broomstick ; and I shall not have ten apples on 
it. My brother you have used better : bid him, at least, 
share his apples with me." 

" Share with you !" said his father : " so, the industrious 
must lose his labour to feed the idle ! Be satisfied with 
your lot ; it is the eifect of your negligence ; and do not think 
to accuse me of injustice, when you see your brother's rich 
crop. 

" Your tree was as fruitful, and in as good order as his : it 
bore as many blossoms, and grew in the same soil : only it 
was not fostered with the same care. Edmund has kept 
his tree clear of hurtful insects ; but you hav^ suffered them 
to eat up yours in its blossoms. 

" As I do not choose to let any thing which God has given 
me, and for which I hold myself accountable to him, go to 
ruin, I shall take this tree from ydu, and call it no more by 
your name. It must pass through your brother's hands, 
before it can recover itself; and, from this moment, both it, 
and the fruit it may bear, are his property. 

" You may, if you will, go into my nursery, and look for 
another, and rear it, to make amends for your fault ; but, if 
you neglect it, that too shall be given to your brother for 
assisting me in my labour." 

Moses felt the justice of his father's sentence, and the 
wisdom of his design. He, therefore, went that moment 
into the nursery, and chose one of the most thriving apple- 
trees he could find. Edmund assisted him, with his advice, 



20 NATIONAL READER. 

in rearing it; Moses embraced every occasion of paying 
attention to it. 

He was now never out of humour with his comrades,* and 
still less with himself; for he applied cheerfully to work; 
and, in autumn, he had the pleasure of seeing his tree fully 
answer his hopes. Thus he had the double advantage of 
enriching himself with a splendid crop of fruit, and, at the 
same time, of subduing the vicious habits he had contracted. 

His father was so well pleased with this change, that, the 
following year, he divided the produce of a small orchard 
between him and his brother. 



LESSON Y. 

On Lying. — Chesterfield. 



U REALLY know nothing. more criminal, more mean, and 
mOTe ridiculous, than lying. It is the production either of 
malice, cowardice, or vanity ; and generally misses of its 
aim in every one of these \4ews ; for lies are ahvays de- 
tected sooner or later. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to 
affect any man's fortune or character, \ may indeed injure 
him for some time ; but I shall be sure to be the greatest 
sufferer at last : for, as soon^as I am detected, (and detected 
I most certainly shall be,) I am -blasted for 'the infamous 
attempt ; and whatever is said afterwards to the disadvan- 
tage of that person, however true, passes for calumny. 

If I lie, or equivocate, (for it is the same thing,) in order 
to excuse myself for something that I have said or done, 
and to avoid the danger or the shame that I apprehend 
from it, I discover, at once, my fear, as well as my false- 
hood ; and only increase, instead of avoiding, the danger 
and the shame ; I shovr myself to be the lowest and meanest 
of mankind, and am sure to be always treated as such. 
Fear, instead of. avoiding, invites danger ; for concealed 
cowards will insult known ones. If one has had the mis- 
fortune to be in the wrong, there is something noble in 
frankly owning it ; it is the only way of atoning for it, and 
the only way of being forgiven. 

Equivocating, evading, shuffling, in order to remove a 
present danger or inconveniency, is something so mean, and 
betrays so much fear, that whoever practises them always 

* Pron. ctun'-rades. 



NATIONAL READER. 21 

deserves to be, and often will be, kicked. There is another 
sort of lies, inoffensive enough in themselves, but wonder- 
fully ridiculous : I mean those lies which a mistaken vanity 
suggests, that defeat the very end for which they are cal- 
culated, and terminate in the humiliation and confusion of 
their author, who is sure to be detected* These are chiefly 
narrative a,nd historic'ai lies, all intended to do infinite ho- 
nour to'thejr author. ^ ^ 

He is always the hero of bis own roman^ces ; he has been 
in danger^, from which nobody but himself ever escaped ; he 
has seen with his^ own eyes whatever other people have 
heard or read of; and has ridden more miles post in one 
day, than ever courier went in two. He is soon discovered, 
and as soon becomes the object of universal contempt and 
ridicule. • 

Remember, then, as long as you live, that nothing but 
strict truth can carry you through the world, with either 
3'our conscience or your honour unwounded. It is not only 
your duty, but your interest : as a proof of which, you may 
always observe, that the greatest fools are the greatest liars. 
For my own part, I judge, hy every man's truth, of his de- 
gree of understanding^ 



■%ESSON VI. 

Portrait of a Patriarch. — ^Addison. 

; I CANNOT forbear making an extract of several passages, 
which I have always read with gi^at delight, in the book of 
Job. It is the account, which mat ^^ man gives, of his 
behaviour in the days of his prosper^^ and, if considered 
only as a human composition, is a finer picture of a charita- 
ble and good-natured man than is to be met with in any 
«ther author. 

" Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when 
God preserved me ; when his candle shined upon my head, 
and when, by his light, I walked through darkness ; when 
the Almighty was yet with me ; when my children were 
about me ; when I washed my steps with butter, and the 
rock poured out rivers of oil. 

" When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
the eye sav/ me> it gave witness to aae ; because I delivered 



22 ^"ATIONAL READEK. 

the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had 
none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to 
perish came upon me ; and I caused the widow's heart to 
sing for joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the 
lame ; I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I 
knew not I searched out. 

" Did not I v/eep for him that was in trouble ? Was not 
my soul grieved for the poor ? Let me be weighed in an 
even balance, that God may know^ mine integrity. If I did 
despise the cause of my man-servant or of my m.aid-servant, 
when they contended ^\-ith me, what then shall I do when 
God riseth up ? and when he visiteth, what shall I ansvr.er 
him ? Did not he that made me make him also ? 

" If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have 
caused the eyes of the widow, to fail, or have eaten my 
morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten there- 
of; if I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any 
poor without covering ; if his loins have not blessed me, 
and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep; if 
I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw 
my help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from my shoul- 
der-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone. 

"I rejoiced not at th#destruction of him that hated me, 
nor lifted up myself when evil found him ; neither have I 
suffered my mouth to sin, by wish^J; a curse to his soul. 
The stranger did not lodge in the street ; but I opened my 
doors to the traveller. If my land cry against me, or the 
furrows thereof complain ; if I have eaten the fruits thereof 
without money, or have caused the owners thereof to lose 
their life ; let thistles grow instead of wheat, and cockles 
instead of barley.',? ^ 



LESSON VII. 

An uncharitable Spirit rebuked. — Rabbinical. 

And it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat 
in the door of his tent, about the going down of the sun. 
And behold, a man, bent with age, came from the way of 
the wilderness, leaning on a staff! And Abraham arose, 
and met him, and said unto him, " Turn in, I pray thee, 
and v/ash thy feet, and tarry aU night; and tliou shalt arise 



NATIONAL READER. 23 

early in the morning, and go on thy way." And the man 
said, "Nay; for I will abide under this tree." 

But Abraham pressed him greatly: so he turned, and they 
went into the tent : and Abraham baked unleavened bread, 
and they did eat. And when Abraham saw that the man 
blessed not God, he said unto him, " Wherefoij^dost thou 
not worship the most high God, Creator of heaven and 
earth ?" And the man answered, and said, " I do not wor- 
ship thy God, neither do I call upon his name ; for I have 
made to myself a god, which abideth always in my house, 
and provideth me with all things.^' 

And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and 
he arose, and fell upon him, and drove him forth, with 
blows, into the wilderness. And God called unto Abraham, 
saying, " Abraham, where is the stranger ?" And Abraham 
answered, and said, "Lord, he would not worship thee^ 
neither would he call upon thy name ; therefore have I 
driven him out from before my face into the v/ilderness." 

And God said, " Have I borne v/ith him these hundred 
and ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed 
him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me ; and couldst 
not thou, who art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night/" 



V. 



.ES§ON YIIL 

Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm. — Addison. 

' The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky. 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim : 
The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display, 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale^ 
And nightly, to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth* : 

* P:on. bertl). 



24 '- NATIONAL READER. 

Whilst all the stars, that round her bujn, 
And all the planets, in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings, as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
^ove round this dark terrestrial ball ! 
What though nor real voice, nor sound, 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
In reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
For ever singing, as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us is Divine." 



LESSON IX. 

Morning Meditations. — Hawkesworth. 

In sleep's serene oblivion laid, 
I've safely passed the silent night ; 

Again I see the breaking shade. 
Again behold the morning light. 

New-born, I bless the waking hour ; 

Once more, with awe, rejoice to be ; 
My conscious soul resumes her power. 

And soars, my guardian God, to thee. 

O guide me through the various maze 
My doubtful feet are doomed to tread ; 

And spread thy shield's protecting blaze 
Where dangers press around my head. 

A <leeper shade shall soon impend — 
A deeper sleep mine eyes oppress : — 

Yet then thy strength shall still defend ; 
Thy goodness still delight to bless. 

That deeper shade shall break away ; 

That deeper sleep shall leave mine eyes ;- 
Thy light shall give eternal day ; 

Thy love, the rapture of the skies. 



NATIONAL READER. 25 

» 

LESSON X. 

Naturt^s Music. — Anonymous. 

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls ! 

My minstrels are the trees ; 
The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, 

Earth's sounds_^ symphonies. 

There's music sweeter to my soul 

In the weed by the wild wind fanned, 
In the heave of the surge, than ever stole ^ 

From mortal minstrel's hand, ♦ 

There's mighty music in the roar 

Of the oaks on the mountain's side, 
When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar, 

And the lightning flashes wide. 

There's music in the city's hum. 

Heard in the noontide glare. 
When its thousand mingling voices come 

On the breast of the sultry air. 

There's music in the forest stream, 

As it plays through the deep ravine,* 
Where never summer's breath or beam 

Has pierced its Woqjiland screen. 

There's music in the thundering sweep 

Of th£. mountain waterfall, 
As its torrents strugpe, and feam, and leap 

From the brow of its marble wall. 

There's music in the dawning mo?S, 

Ere the lark his pinion dries— ^ , 

In the rush of the breeze through the dewy com, 
Through the garden's perfumed dyes. 

There's music on the twilight cloud. 

As the clanging wild swans spring ; 
As homeward the screaming ravens crowd, * 

Like squadrons on the wing. 

* Pron. ra-vleHC 
3 



NATIONAL READER. • 

There's music in the depth of night, 
When the world is still and dim, 

And the stars flame out in their pomp of light, 
Like thrones of the cherubim ! 



LESSON 



*- 



ReUgious Contemplation of the Works of God. — Moodie, 
%Contem'plate the great sceSltof natia^ and accustom 



yourselves to connect them with the^pe^btions of God 
All vast and unmeasurable objects are fitted to impress the 
soul with awe. The mountain, whicli 'rises above the 
neighbouring hills, and hides its head in"^Hhe sky; the 
sounding, unfathomed, boundless deep ; the'jj^panse of 
heaven, where, above, and.around, no limit chec& the won- 
dering eye ; these objects fill and elevate the mind — they 
produce a solemn frame of spirit, which accords with the 
sentiment of religion. v 

From the contemplation of what is great and magnificent 
in nature, the soul rises to the Author of all. We think of 
the time which preceded the birth of the universe, when 
no being existed but God alotffe. " While unnumbered sys- 
tems arise in order before" us, created by his pow^r, arranged 
by his wis4om, and'^lled with h%.pr^ence, the earth, and 
the sea, with all that -they contain, are hardly beheld amidst 
the immensity of his works.V In the boundless subject the 
soul is lost. " It is he who sitteth on thexircl^jB^the earth. 



and the inhabitants thmre^jhare.as ^tasshopp^s. ^ He weigh- 
eth the mountains^.in'i^al©6s_j He taketh up the isles as a 
very little thing. ^l^opSy what is man that thou art mindful 
of him!" _"^. • • 

I%ise for ax%%ile, yfe travellers on the earth, to contem'- 
plate the universe in which you dwell, and the glory of 
him who created it. What a ^ene of wonders is here 
presented to your view ! If beheld with a religious eye, 
what a temple for the worship of the Almighty ! The earth 
is spread out before you, reposing amidst the desolation of 
winter, oi* clad in the verdure of the spring ; smiling in 
the beauty of summer, or loaded with autumnal fruit ; open- 
ing:, to an endless variety of beings, the treasures of their 



NATIONAL READER. 27 

Maker's goodness, and ministering subsistence"^ and comfort 
to every creature that lives. 

The heavens, also, declare the glory of the Lord. The 
sun Cometh forth from his chambers to scatter the shades of 
niglit, inviting you to the renewal of your labours, adorn- 
ing the face of nature, and, as he advances to his meridian 
britrhtness, cherishing every herb and every flower that 
ppiingeth from the bosom of the earth. Nor, when he 
retires again from your view, doth he leave the Creator 
^Ailhout a witness. He only hides his own splendor for a 
while, to disclose to you a more glorious scene ; to show 
you the immensity of space filled with worlds unnumbered, 
that your imaginations may wander, witliout a limit, in the 
vast creation of God. 

What a field is here opened for the exercise of every 
pious emotion ! and how irresistibly do such contemplations 
as these awaken the sensibility of the soul ! Here is infi- 
nite power to impress you with awe ; here is infinite wis- 
dom to fill you with admiration ; here is infinite goodness 
to call forth your gratitude and love. The correspondence 
between these great objects and the affections of the human 
heart, is established by nature itself; and they need only to 
be placed before us, that every religious feeling may be 
excited, f 



LESSON XIL 

Criminality of Intemperance.— H. Ware, Jr. 

I DO not mean to say, that the habit of intemperance is 
ever formed without temptation, or persisted in without 
what may be thought an excuse. The temptation is gra- 
dual, and insinuating ; the habit is formed insensibly. It is 
an esta,blished custom for men to drink while they labour. 
The poor man is taught, absurdly, to think a glass necessary 
for his strength ; he finds another necessary for good com- 
panionship. He cannot go abroad without finding a lure 
invitingly held out beneath the license of the law. Before 
he is aware of it, a certain stimulus has become necessary 
to his constitution. If he try to amend, he is pressed by 
this necessity, and, in a manner, compelled to maintain the 
vice ; though he would give the world to renounce it. And 



28 NATIONAL READER. 

where, we are asked, is the sin in all this ? Is there not 
rather a call for compassion than for censure ? 

Undoubtedly there is a call for compassion ; for deep and 
earnest compassion. So there is in the case of every sin, 
when we reflect on the circumstances of trial and tempta- 
tion. The case of the drunkard is not, in this respect, 
different from that of other criminals. The man who, 
impelled by want, or the unprincipled habits of a bad 
education, robs on the high way, is driven by as imperious 
a necessity as the drunkard. The temptation is as strong, 
the habit is as irresistible. 

The sudden passion of the murderer is as irresistible as 
the appetite of the tippler. The cherijjhed revenge of the 
assassin is as strong an incitement as the cherished thirst 
of the intemperate. But who, in these cases, excuses the 
crime because of the temptation ? Who thinks it a pallia- 
tion of the offence, that the state of the offender's mind 
and heart is such as necessarily to lead to it ? 

Who excuses the two-fold crime of David, because of the 
greatness of the lust by which he was drawn away and 
r/uticed ? Compassionate, therefore, as you please, the con- 
dition of the miserable man who is the slave of intemperate 
habits ; but remember that, after all, his apology is but the 
same with that of other criminals, and quite as (strong for 
them as for him. 

Indeed, may we not fairly go further, and say, that there 
are some circumstances which bring a peculiar aggravation 
to his guilt ? When we consider the powerful dissuasives 
from this sin, is there not an aggravation in that state of 
mind, which is not at all affected by them ? When we 
reflect on the misery it occasions, must there not be a sin- 
gular guilt in that deadness of mind, which allows one coolly 
to produce that misery, without any malice or bad" intention ? 
How thoroughly must the good affections be palsied, and 
the moral sense destroyed, when this brutalizing enjoyment 
has become more desirable to a man, than all the rich plea- 
sures which flow from home, friendship, health, and repu- 
tation ! 

AVhat an enormity of sin must he have to answer for, who 
has depraved himself so far, that, when all the felicities of a 
rational and social being are put in the one scale, and those 
of a beastly self-indulgence in the other, he chooses the last, 
strips himself of decency and honour, puts out the light of 
reason, flings off the attributes of a man, and rushes into all 



NATIONAL READER. 29 

the wickedness of voluntary insanity, disgusting idiocy, and 
profane beastliness — disgraces his friends, beggars his family, 
initiates his children in the dispositions and pathway of hell, 
— becomes the corrupter of youthful purity, and a public 
teacher of debauchery — with no disposition to engage in 
good pursuits, and no power to attend to the things which 
concern his peace, or to take one step toward the salvation 
of his soul ! 

What can be said of such a man, but that his present and 
eternal ruin are complete ! Earth curses him, while he is 
upon it ; and beyond it he can see no prospect but that of the 
blackness of darkness. A drunkard cannot inherit the king- 
dom of heaven. 

I am aware that many are ready to start back with incre- 
dulity and displeasure, when we speak of the eternal ruin 
of any human being : and rightly, if it be denounced by 
human wrath with insufficient authority. But, in the pre- 
sent case, let any considerate man reflect on the nature of 
this vice, and consider how it deforms and brutalizes the 
whole man ; how it destroys the intellectual faculties ; how 
it palsies the moral affections ; how it unfits for duty, inca- 
pacitates for improvement, disqualifies for the pure and 
elevated sentiments of devotion, and renders one as little 
capable of religion as of reason; — does he not perceive that 
it is impossible for such a man to relish the pure, intellect- 
ual, spiritual joys of heaven ? and that his future prospects 
are, therefore, fearful and dark ? 

If pure affections, penitent humility, and devout habits, 
be essential to its bliss, has he not dreadfully ruined the 
hope of his soul ? If preparation be necessary, has he not 
refused his happiness, by refusing to be prepared ? Does 
not reason take up the language of scripture, and repeat, 
with earnest conviction, A drunkard cannot inherit the king- 
dom of God ? 



LESSON XIIL 

r The Worm, — Missourian. 

I 
I 

I '•' Outvenoms all the worms of Kile.^'—Shalcspeare. 

! Who has not heard of the rattle-snake or copperhead \ 

\ An unexpected sight of either of these reptiles will make 

3* 



3a NATIONAL READER. 

even the lords of creation recoil : but there is a species of 
worm, found in various parts of this state, which conveys a 
poison of a nature so deadly, that, compared with it, even 
the venom of the rattle-snake is harmless. To guard our 
readers against this foe of human kind, is the object of this 
eommunication. 

This worm varies much in size. It is frequently an inch 
through, but, as it is rarely seen, except when coiled, its 
length can hardly be conjectured. It is of a dull lead 
colour, and generally lives near a spring or small stream of' 
water, and bites the unfortunate people, who are in the habit 
of going there to drink. The brute creation it never molests. 
They avoid it with the same instinct that teaches the 
animals of Peru to shun the deadly coya. 

Several of these reptiles have long infested our settle- 
ments, to the misery and destruction of many of our fellow 
citizens. I have, therefore, had frequent opportunities of 
being the melancholy spectator of the eifects produced by 
the subtle poison which this worm infuses. 

The symptoms of its bite are terrible. The eyes of the 
patient become red and fiery, his tongiie swells to an immo- 
derate size, and obstructs his utterance ; and delirium, of the 
most horrid character, quickly follows. Sometimes, in his 
madness, he attempts the destruction of his nearest friends. 

If the sufferer has a family, his weeping wife and helpless 
infants are not unfrequently the objects of his frantic fury. 
In a word, he exhibits, to the life, all the detestable passions 
that rankle in the bosom of a savage ; and, such is the spell 
in which his senses are locked, that, no sooner has the 
unhappy patient recovered from the paroxysm of insanity, 
occasioned by the bite, than he seeks out the destroyer^ for 
the sole purpose of being bitten again. 

I have seen a good old father, his locks as white as snow, 
his steps slow and trembling, beg in vain of his only son to 
quit the lurking place of the worm. My heart bled when 
he turned away ; for I knew the fond hope, that his son 
would be the " staff of his declining years," had supported 
him through many a sorrow. 

Youths of Missouri, would you know the name of this 
reptile ? It is called the Worm of the Still 



NATIONAL READER. -SI 

LESSON XIV. 
Debt and Credit. — Emporium, Trenton. 

I Disi.iKE the whole matter of debt and credit — from my 
heart I dislike it ; and think the man, who first invented a 
leger, should be hung ;n effigy, with, his invention tied to 
his feet, that his neck might support him and his works 
together. My reason for thus sweeping at the whole sys- 
tem is, not that I believe it totally useless, but that I believe 
it does more mischief than good, produces more trouble 
than accommodation, and destroys more fortunes than it 
creates honestly. 

These opinions are not of a recent date with me : they 
are those upon which I set out in early life, and, as I grew 
older, I became more and more confirmed in them : not that 
I changed my practice, while I held fast my profession, and 
got my fingers burned at last, by trusting my name in a 
day-book ; for I never did it, because I saw the evil effects 
of credit around me, in every shape and form. 

A visit, this morning, to my old friend, Timothy Coulter, 
called the subject up so forcibly, that I concluded to 
write you a line upon it. His last cow was sold this very 
morning, by the constable, for six dollars, though she cost 
him sixteen ; and they have not left an ear of corn in his 
crib, or a bushel of rye in his barn, much less any of his 
stock : it was what was called the winding up of the con- 
cern ; and he is now on his good behaviour ; for I heard one 
of his creditors say, that, if he did not go on very straight, 
he would walk him off to the county prison-ship. Thus 
has ended Timothy's game of debt and credit. 

When he first commenced farming, he was as industrious 
and promising a young man as was to be found ; he ^vorked 
day and night, counted the cost, and pondered on the pur- 
chase of every thing. For a year or two, he kept out of 
debt, lived comfortably and happy, and made money : every 
merchant, that knew him, was ready to make a polite bow : 
each knew him as one of your cash men, and liked his 
custom. The mechanic shook him by the hand, and begged 
his company to dinner, hoping to get a job from him ; and 
even the lawyer, in contemplation of his high character, 
lipped his beaver as he passed him, with a sign, as much as 
to say, " Tim, you have more sense than half the world ; 
but that's no consolation to us." 



82 NATIONAL READER. 

By some fatality, Timothy found out, however, that there 
was such a thing as credit. He began soon to have many 
running accounts, and seldom paid for what he got ; it soon 
followed, that the inquiry, " Do I really want this article ?" 
before he bought it, was neglected ; then the price was fre- 
quently not asked ; then he began to be careless about pay- 
day ; his accounts stood, he disputed them when rendered, 
was sued, charged with costs, and, perhaps, slyly, with 
interest too ; and he became a money-borrower before long ; 
but his friends, after a lawsuit had brought them their 
money, were ready to trust him again, and he was as ready 
to buy. The same farce was played over and over, until 
now the end of these things has come ; and, poor fellow, he 
is turned out upon the wide world, without a friend, save a 
wife and six miserable babes. 

I asked the constable for a sight of the execution, and he 
showed it to me. It was issued by young 'squire Bell, and 
I could not but recollect how different was the history of 
this man from that of Timothy. Young Bell was a poor boy, 
and commenced his life with nothing but health and trade ; 
but he adopted, as a sacred maxim, " Pay as you go ;" and 
he frequently told me, he found little difficulty in sticking to 
his text. 

The necessaries of life are few, and industry secures 
them to every man : it is the elegancies of life that empty 
the purse : the knick-knacks of fashion, the gratification of 
pride, and the indulgence of luxury, make a man poor. 
To guard against these, some resolution is necessary ; and 
the resolution, once formed, is much strengthened and 
guarded by the habit of paying for every article we buy, at 
the time. If we do so, we shall seldom purchase what our 
circumstances will not afford. 

This was exactly the manner in which Jack Bell pro- 
ceeded. Habit, strengthened by long continuance, and 
supported by reason, became second nature. His business 
prospered ; his old purse became filled vnth Spanish dollars ; 
all his purchases, being made for cash, were favourable ; and, 
by always knomng how he stood with the world, he avoided 
all derangement in his affairs. He is now the 'squire of a 
little village, with a good property, a profitable business, and 
the respect of all who know him. 

Young reader, who hast not entered on the stage of busi- 
ness, when you come forward in the world, go and do like- 
wise, and you shall have like reward. 



NATIONAL READER. 33 

LESSON XV. 

Tlie Indians. — National Republican, Cincinnati. 

There are many traits of the Indian character highly 
interesting to the philosopher and Christian. Their uncou- 
qiierable attachment to their pristine modes and habits of 
Me., which counteracts every eifort towards civilization, 
furnishes to the philosopher a problem too profound for 
solution. Their simple and unadorned religion, the same 
in all ages, and free from the disguise of hypocrisy, which 
they have received, by tradition, from their ancestors, leads 
the mind to a conclusion, that they possess an unwritten 
revelation from God, intended for their benefit, which ought 
to induce us to pause before we undertake to convert them 
to a more refined and less explicit faith. 

The religion of the Indian appears to be fitted for that 
state and condition, in which his Maker has been pleased to 
place him. He believes in one Supreme Being — with all 
the mighty attributes which we ascribe to God — rwhom he 
denominates the Great and Good Spirit^ and worships in a 
devout manner, and from whom he invokes blessings ou 
himself and friends, and curses on his enemies. 

Our Maker has left none of his intelligent creatures with- 
out a witness of himself. Long before the human mind is 
capable of a course of metaphysical reasoning upon the con- 
nexion which exists between cause and effect, a sense of 
Deity is inscribed upon it. It is a revelation which the 
Deity has made of himself to man, and which becomes 
more clear and intelligible, according to the manner and 
degree in which it is improved. In the Indian, whose mind 
has never been illumined by the light of science, it appears 
weak and obscure. 

Those moral and political improvements, w^hich are the 
pride and boast of man in polished society, and which result 
from mental accomplishments, the savage vie^vs with a jea- 
lous sense of conscious inferiority. Neither his reason, nor 
his invention, appears to have been exercised for the high 
and noble purposes of human excellence ; and, while he 
pertinaciously adheres to traditional prejudices and passions, 
he improves upon those ideas only, which he has received 
through the senses. 

Unaided by any oth^r light than that which he has re- 



34 NATIONAL READER. 

ceived from the Father of lights, the Indian penetrates the 
dark curtain, which separates time and eternity, and be- 
lieves in the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection 
of the body, not only of all mankind, but of all animated 
nature, and a state of future existence, of endless duration. 
It is, therefore, their general custom to bury, with the dead, 
their bows, arrows, and spears, that they may be prepared 
to commence their course in another state. 

Man is seldom degraded so low, but that he hopes, and 
believes, that death \vill not prove the extinction of his 
being. Is this a sentiment resulting from our fears or our 
passions ? Or, rather, is it not the inspiration of the Al- 
mighty, which gives us this understanding, and which has 
been imparted to all the children of men ? A firm belief in 
the i;nmortality of the soul, with a devout sense of a gene- 
ral superintending power, essentially supreme, constitutes 
the fundamental article of the Indian's faith. 

His reason, though never employed in high intellectual 
attainments and exertions, is less corrupted and perverted 
while he roams in his native forests than in an unrestricted 
intercourse with civilized man. * * * jjg beholds, in 
the rising sun, the manifestation of di\'ine goodness, and 
pursues the chase with a fearless and unshaken confidence 
in the protection of that great and good Spirit, whose watch- 
ful care is over all his works. 

Let us not, then, attribute his views of an omniscient and 
omnipresent Being to the effect of a sullen pride of inde- 
pendence, and his moral sense of right and wrong to a 
heartless insensibility. Deprived, by the peculiarities of his 
situation, of those offices of kindness and tenderness, which 
soften the heart, and sweeten the intercourse of life, in a 
civilized state, we should consider him a being doomed to 
suffer the evils of the strongest and most vigorous passions, 
without the consolation of those divine and human virtues,, 
which dissipate our cares, and alleviate our sorrows. 

It is now two hundred years since attempts have been 
made, and unceasingly persevered in, by the pious and be- 
nevolent, to civilize, and Christianize, the North American 
savage, until millions of those unfortunate beings, including 
many entire tribes, have become extinct. The few, who 
remain within the precincts of civilized society, stand as 
human monuments of Gothic grandeur, fearful and tremu- 
lous amidst the revolutions of time. 

Neither the pride of rank, the allurements of honours, 



NATIONAL READER. 36 

nor the hopes of distinction, can afford to the Indian a ray 
of comfort, or the prospect of better days. He contem'plates 
the past as the retumless seasons of happiness and joy, and 
rushes to the wilderness as a refuge from the blandishments 
of art, and the pomp and show of polished society, to seek, 
in his native solitudes, the cheerless gloom of ruin and 
desolation. 



LESSON XVL 

Story and Speech of Logan. — Jefferson. 

The principles of society, among the American Indians, 
forbidding all compulsion, they are to be led to duty, and to 
enterprise, by personal influence and persuasion. Hence, 
eloquence in council, bravery and address in war, become 
the foundations of all consequence with them. To these 
acquirements all their faculties are directed. Of their 
bravery and address in war, we have multiplied proofs, 
because we have been the subjects on which they were 
exercised. 

Of their eminence in oratory, we have fewer examples, 
because it is displayed, chiefly, in their own councils. Some, 
however, we have of very superior lustre. I may challenge 
the whole orations of Demosthenes and Cicero, and of any 
more eminent orator, — if Europe has furnished more emi- 
nent, — to produce a single passage, superior to the speech of 
Logan, a Mingo chief, to lord Dunmore, when governor of 
Virginia. And, as a testimony of their talents in this line, 
I beg leave to introduce it, first stating' the incidents neces- 
sary for understanding it. 

In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was commit- 
ted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the river 
Ohio. The whites, in that quarter, according to their cus- 
tom, undertook to punish this outrage in a sunimary way. 
Captain Michael Cresap, and a certain Daniel Greathouse, 
leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, travel^ 
ling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their women 
and children with them, and murdered many. Among 
these were, unfortunately^ the family of Logan, a chief, 
celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the 
friend of the whites. 



36 NATIONAL READER. 

This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He ac- 
cordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In 
the autumn of the same year, a decisive battle was fought 
at the mouth of the Great Kenhaway, between the collected 
forces of the Shaw^anese, Mingoes, and Del aw ares, and a 
detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians were de- 
feated, and sued for pegfce. Logan, however, disdained to 
be seen among the suppliants. But, lest the sincerity of a 
treaty should be distrusted, from which so distinguished a 
chief absented himself, he sent, by a messenger, the follow- 
ing speech, to be delivered to lord Dunmore. 

" I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat : if ever 
lie came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 
the course of the last long and bloody w ar, Logan remained 
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love 
for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, 
and said, * Logan is the friend of white men.' I had even 
thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one 
man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and 
unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even 
sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop 
of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called 
on me for revenge. I have sought it : I have killed many : 
I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice 
at the beams of peace : but do not harbour a thought that 
mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will 
not turn on his heel to save his life. ^Tio is there to mourn 
for Loffan ? — Not one." 



LESSON XVIL 

Geehale — An Indian Lament. — Statesman, iV. Vork. 

The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
As sweetly and gaily as ever before ; 
For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, 
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 
The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, 
And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light, 
As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, 
TVTien my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. 



NATIONAL READER. 37 

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 

Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track. 

For they know that their mates are expecting them back. 

Each bird, and each beast, it is blest in degree : 

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; 
I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; 
I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows. 
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; 
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, 
^or my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 
But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ; 
The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 
I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore ; 
Its charms I no longer obey, or invoke ; 
Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; 
I will dream on the w4ngs of the bluebird at night ; 
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves. 
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 
And will take a new Manito — such as shall seem 
To be kind and propitious in every dream. 

Oh ! then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; 
I shall wash from my face every cloud-coloured stain, 
Red — red shall, alone, on my visage remain ! 
I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
By night, and by day, I will follow the foe ; 
Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows •,-— 
His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 

They came to my cabin, when heaven w^as black : 
I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; 
But I saw, by the hght of their blazing fusees. 
They were people engendered beyond the big seas : 
My wife, and my children, — oh spare me the tale !— 
For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ! 
4 



38 i NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XVIIL 

Fall of Tecumsek. — Statesman, A''. York. 

What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, 
To the war-blast indignantly tramping ? 

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, 
The steel hit impatiently champing. 

'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, 

Conducting the free and the fearless, 
^h ! see them rush forward, with wild disdain. 

Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. 

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, 

Announcing that chivalrous* sally ; 
The savage was heard, with untrembling breath. 

To pour his response from the valley. 

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, 
And nought but the war-whoop given ; 

The next — and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, 
As if by the lightning riven. 

Th€ din of the steed, and the sabred stroke. 

The blood-stifled gasp of the dying, 
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, 

That upward went wildly flying. 

In the mist that hung over the field of blood. 
The chief of the horsemen contended ; 

His rowels were bathed in the purple flood, 
That fast from his charger descended. 

. That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight. 

But the rider repressed not his daring, 
Till met by a savage, whose rank, and might. 
Were shown by the plume he was wearing. 

The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe 
Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him ; 

But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, 
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before " 

* ch as in church. 



NATIOISAL READER. 39 

ne'er may the nations again be cursed , 

With conflict so dark and appalling !-— 
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood barst 

From their agonized bosoms in falling. 

Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot, 
Where the hopes of the red man perished ; 

But the fame of the hero who fell shall not, 
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. 

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, 

With a spirit most loving and loyal, 
And long shall the Indian warrior sing 

The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. 

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, 
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,- 

But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, 
And left the freed captive to wonder,* 

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, 

With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him ; 
And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps 

By the mound where his followers bore him. 



LESSON XIX. 
Monument Mountain. — Bryant. 



V 

Thou, who would'st see the lovely and the wild 
]Mingled, in harmony, on Nature's face. 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for, on their tops, 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome w^ay. There, as thou stand'st, 
The haunts of men below thee, and, above, 
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 



40 NATIONAL READER. 

To which thoii: art translated, and partake 

The enlargement of thy vision. . Thou shalt look 

Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 

And down into the secrets of the glens 

And streams, that, with their bordering thickets, strive 

To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 

Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds. 

And swarming roads ; and, there, on solitudes. 

That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 

And eagle's shriek There is a precipice. 

That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 

Built by the hand that fashioned the old world. 

To separate its nations, and thrown down 

When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 

Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 

With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east. 

Sheer to the vale, go down the bare old cliffs, — 

Huge pillars, that, in middle heaven, upbear 

Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 

With the thick moss of centuries, and there 

Of chalky whiteness, where the thunderbolt 

Has splintered them.. ? It is a fearful thing 

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 

Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, 

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and, at the base, 

Dashed them in fragments ; and to lay thine eaj 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below^, 

Come up like oqean murmurs, v But the scene 

Is lovely round.' A beautiful river there 

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself. 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 

The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven, j 

There is a tale about these gray old rocks,. 
A sad tradition of unhappy love 
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago. 
When, over these fair vales, the savage songht 
His game in the thick woods. ' "-e was a maid, 



NATIONAL READER. 41 

The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 

With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 

And a gay heart. About her cabin door 

The wide old woods resounded with her song 

And fairy laughter all the summer day. 

She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 

By the morality of those stern tribes, 

Unlawful, and she struggled hard and long 

Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 

As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 

Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 

Its lightness, and the gray old men, that passed 

Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 

The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 

Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 

Upon the Winter of their age. She went 

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 

When all the merry girls were met to dance. 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 

Nor when they gathered, from the rustling husk, 

The shining ear ; nor when, by the river side. 

They pulled the grape, and startled the wild shades 

With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 

Would whisper to each other, as they saw 

Her wasting form, and say. The girl will die. 

fOne^ay^ into the bosom of a friend, 
A playmate of her young and innocent years, 
She poure^ her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou alone,'^ 
She said, ''' for I have told thee, all my lov£, 
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life.^ "^ 
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed. 
That has no business on the earth. I hate 
The pastimes, and the pleasant toils, that once 
I loved ; the cheerful; voices of Iny friends 
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, 
Calls me, and chides me. All that look on me 
Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 
It was a summer morning, and they went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and skins of wolf 
4* 



42 NATIONAL READER. 

And shaggy bear, the offerings of the tribe 

Here made to the Great Spirit ; for they deemed, 

Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 

Doth walk on the high places, and affect 

The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on 

The ornaments, with which the father loved 

To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, 

And bade* her wear when stranger warriors came 

To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, 

And sung, all day, old songs of love and death. 

And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 

And prayed that safe and s^vift might be her way 

To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 

Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 

Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 

Below her ; — waters, resting in the embrace 

Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades, 

Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 

She gazed upon it long, and, at the sight 

Of her own village, peeping through the trees, 

And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 

Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 

Ran from her eyes. But, when the sun grew low. 

And the hill-shadows long, she threw herself 

From the steep rock, and perished. There was scooped', 

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 

With which the maiden decked herself for death, 

With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 

And, o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 

Built up a simple monument, a cone 

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who passed*, 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone, 

In silence, on the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians, from the distant west, that come 

To visit where their fathers' bones are laid. 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and, to this day. 

The mountain, where the hapless maiden died, 

Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 

* Prm. bad 



NATIONAL READER. 4» 



LESSON XX. 

Grandeur and moral interest of American Antiquities. — 
T. Flint. 

You will expect me to say something of the lonely re^ 
cords of the former races that inhabited this country. That 
there has, formerly, been a much more numerous population 
than exists here at present, I am fully impressed, from the 
result of my own personal observations. From the highest 
points of the Ohio, to w^here I am now writing,* and far up 
the upper Mississippi and Missouri, the more the country is 
explored and peopled, and the more its surface is penetrated, 
not only are there more mounds brought to view, but more 
incontestable marks of a numerous population. 

Wells, artificially walled, different structures of conve- 
nience or defence, have been found in such numbers, as no 
longer to excite curiosity. Ornaments of silver and of cop- 
per, pottery, of which I have seen numberless specimens on 
all these waters, — not to mention the mounds themselves, 
and the still more tangible evidence of human bodies found 
in a state of preservation, and of sepulchres full of bones, — 
are unquestionable demonstrations, that this country was once 
possessed of a numerous population. * * * The mounds 
themselves, though of earth, are not those rude and shape- 
less heaps, that they have been commonly represented to 
be. I have seen, for instance, in different parts of the 
Atlantic country, the breast-works and other defences of 
earth, that were thrown up by our people during the war 
of the revolution. None of those monuments date back 
more than fifty years. These mounds must date back to 
remote depths in the olden time. 

From the ages of the trees on them, and from other data, 
we can trace them back six hundred years, leaving it en- 
tirely to the imagination to descend farther into the depths 
of time beyond. And yet, after the rains, the washing, and 
the crumbling of so many ages, many of them are still 
twenty-five feet high. All of them are, incomparably, more 
conspicuous monuments than the works which I just no- 
ticed. Some of them are spread over an extent of acres. 
I have seen, great and small, I should suppose, a hundred, 

* St. Charles, on the Missouri. 



44 NATIONAL READER. 

Though diverse, in position and form, they all have an 
uniform character. 

They are, for the most part, in rich soils, and in conspicu- 
ous situations. Those on the Ohio are covered with very 
large trees. But, in the prairie regions, where I have seen 
the greatest numbers, they are covered with tall grass, and 
generally near benches, — which indicate the former courses 
of the rivers, — ^in the finest situations for present culture ; and 
the greatest population clearly has been in those very posi- 
tions, where the most dense future population will be. * * * 

The English, when they sneer at our country, speak of it 
as steril in moral interest. " It has," say they, " no mo- 
numents, no ruins, none of the massive remains of former 
ages ; no castles, no mouldering abbeys, no baronial towers 
and dungeons ; nothing to connect the imagination and the 
heart with the past ; no recollections of former ages, to asso- 
ciate the past with the future." 

But I have been attempting sketches of the largest and 
most fertile valley in the world, larger, in fact, than half of 
Europe, all its remotest points being brought into proximity 
by a stream, which runs the length of that continent, and 
to which all but two or three of the rivers of Europe are 
but rivulets. Its forests make a respectable figure, even 
placed beside Blenheim park. 

We have lakes which could find a^lace for the Cumber- 
land lakes in the hollow of one of their islands. We have 
prairies, which have struck me as among the subiimest pros- 
pects in nature. There we see the sun rising over a bound- 
less plain, where the blue of the heavens, in all directions, 
touches and mingles with the verdure of the flowers. It is, 
to me, a view far more glorious than that on which the sun 
rises over a barren and angry waste of sea. The one is soft, 
cheerful, associated with life, and requires an easier effort of 
the imagination to travel beyond the eye. The other is 
grand, but dreary, desolate, and always ready to destroy. 

In the most pleasing positions of these prairies, we have 
our Indian mounds, which proudly rise above the plain. 
At first the eye mistakes them for hills ; but, when it catches 
the regularity of their breast-works and ditches, it discovers, 
at once, that they are the labours of art and of men. 

When the evidence of the senses convinces us that hu- 
man bones moulder in these masses ; when you dig about 
them, and bring to light their domestic utensils ; and are 
compelled to believe, that the busy tide of life once fiowec^ 



NATIONAL READER. 45 

here ; when you see, at once, that these races were of a very 
different character from the present generation, — you begin 
to inquire if any tradition, if any, the faintest, records can 
throw any light upon these habitations of men of another 
age. 

Is there no scope, beside these mounds, for imagination., 
and for contemplation of the past? The men, their joys, 
their sorrows, their bones, are all buried together. But 
the grand features of nature remain. There is the beautiful 
prairie, over which they '^ strutted through life's poor play." 
The forests, the hills, the mounds, lift their heads in unal- 
terable repose, and furnish the same sources of contempla- 
tion to us, that they did to those generations that have 
passed away. 

It is true, we have little reason to suppose, that they were 
the guilty dens of petty tyrants, who let loose their half 
savage vassals to burn, plunder, enslave, and despoil an 
adjoining den. There are no remains of the vast and use- 
less monasteries, where ignorant and lazy monks dreamed 
over their lusts, or meditated their vile plans of acquisition 
and imposture. 

Here must have been a race of men, on these charming 
plains, that had every call from the scenes that surrounded 
them, to contented existence and tranquil meditation. Un- 
fortunate, as men view the thing, they must have been. 
Innocent and peaceful they probably were ; for, had they 
been reared amidst wars and quarrels, like the present 
Indians, they would, doubtless, have maintained their ground, 
and their posterity would have remained to this day. Be- 
side them moulder the huge bones of their contemporary 
beasts, which must have been of thrice the size of the ele- 
phant. 

I cannot judge of the recollections excited by castles and 
towers that I have not seen. But I have seen all of gran- 
deur, which our cities can display. I have seen, too, these 
lonely tombs of the desert, — seen them rise from these 
boundless and unpeopled plains. My imagination and my 
heart have been full of the past. The nothingness of the 
brief dream of human life has forced itself upon my mind. 
The unknown race, to which these bones belonged, had, I 
doubt not, as many projects of ambition, and hoped, as san- 
guinely, to have their names survive, as the great ones of 
the present day. 



46 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON XXL 

On the BarrowSj or Monumental Mounds^ in the prairies of the 
Western Rivers. — M. Flint. 

The sun's last rays were fading from the west, 
The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain, 

The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, 
And all was silence, — save the mournful strain 
With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain, 

Her absent lover to her lonely nest. 

Now, one by one, emerging to the sight. 

The brighter stars assumed their seats on high ; 

The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, 
As the last twilight fled along the sky, 
And all her train, in cloudless majesty, 

Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night. 

I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, 
And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene ; 

From the dark summit of an Indian mound 
I saw the plain, outspread in living green ; 
Its fringe of cliffs was, in the distance, seen, 

And the dark line of forest sweeping round. 

I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose ; 

Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; 
There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes, 

There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay ; 

And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day, 
Forgot their wars, and found a long repose. i 

I 
Ye mouldering relics of departed years. 

Your names have perished ; not a trace remains. 
Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears 

From the green bosom of your native plains. 

Say, do* your spirits Avear oblivion's chains ? 
Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ? 



Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss. 
Which simple nature to your bosoms gave, 



NATIONAL READER. 47 

Find other worlds with fairer skies, than this, 
Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave, 
In whose bright climes the virtuous* and the brave 

Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? — 

Where the great hunter still pursues the chase, 
And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer ; 

Or where he finds each long-extinguished race. 
And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear 
The giant form which lies imbedded here, 

Of other years the sole remaining trace. 

Or, it may be, that still ye linger near ' « 

The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride ; 

And, could your forms to mortal eye appear, 
Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside. 
Then might I see your restless shadows glide, 

With watchful care, around these relics dear. 

If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet 

Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. 

I would not thus profane their lone retreat. 
Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head 
Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed. 

Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. 

Farewell ! and may you still, in peace, repose ; 
Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom. 

And softly wave to every breeze that blows. 
Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb, 
In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, 

And mingle with the clay from which they rose. 



LESSON XXIL 

The American Indian, as he was, and as he is. — C. Sprague. 

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank 
thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole 

* Pro?i. ver'-tshu-ous. 



48 NATIONAL READER. 

iinscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. 
Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian 
hunter pursued the panting deer : gazing on the same moon 
that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. 

Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and help- 
less, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now 
they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now 
they paddled the light canoe* along your rocky shores. Here 
they warred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the 
defying death-song, all were here ; and, when the tiger strife 
was over, here curled the smoke of peace. 

Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark bo- 
som went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had 
not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had 
traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child 
of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of 
the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. 

He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his 
lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from 
his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morn- 
ing breeze ; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirl- 
winds ; in the timid warbler, that never left its native grove ; 
in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in 
clouds ; in the worm that crawled at his foot ; and in his 
own matchless form, glo\ving with a spark of that light, to 
whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind 
adoration. 

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a 
pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the path 
of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed 
the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, 
from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the 
bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education 
have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 

Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
their bold, untamed, untameable progenitors ! The Indian, 
of falcont glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the touch- 
ing ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone !. and his 
degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in 
majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot 
of the conqueror is on his neck. 

* Pron. ca-noo'". ' f Pron. faw'-kn. 



NATIONAL READER. 49 

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins 
are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out 
on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrod- 
den west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant moun- 
tains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are 
shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them 
away ; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which 
will settle over them forever. 

Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
turbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they 
belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles 
of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude 
virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as 
a people. 



LESSON XXIIL 

The Grave a place of rest. — Mackenzie. 

The grave is a place where the weary are at rest„ 
How soothing is this sentiment, "The w^eary are at rest!" 
There is something in the expression which affects the 
heart with uncommon sensations, and produces a species of 
delight, where tranquillity is the principal ingredient. The 
sentiment itself is extensive, and implies many particulars : 
it implies, not only that we are delivered from the troubling 
of the wicked, as in the former clause, but from every tiou- 
ble and every pain, to which life is subjected. 

Those, only, who have themselves been tried in affliction, 
can fed the full force of this expression. Others may be 
pleased with the sentiment, and affected by sympathy. The 
distressed are, at once, pleased and comforted. To be de- 
livered from trouble — to be relieved from power — to see 
oppression humbled* — to be freed from care and pain, from 
sickness and distress — to lie down as in a bed of security, 
in a long oblivion of our woes — to sleep, in peace, with- 
mit flip fear of interruption — how pleasing is the prospect! 
. 11 of consolation ! 

* Pron. uro'-brd. 



50 NATIONAL READER. 

The ocean may roll its waves, the warring \\ands may- 
join their forces, the thunders may shake the skies,* and the 
lightnings pass, swiftly, from cloud to cloud : but not the 
forces of the elements, combined, not the sounds of thun- 
ders, nor of many seas, though they were united into one 
peal, and directed to one point, can shake the security of 
the tomb. 

The dead hear nothing| of the tumult ; they sleep soundly; 
they rest from their calamities upon beds of peace. Con- 
ducted to silent mansions, they cannot be troubled by the 
rudest assaults, nor awakened by the loudest clamour. The 
unfortunate, the oppressed, the broken-hearted, with those 
that have languished on beds of sickness, rest here together : 
they have forgot their distresses ; every sorrow is hushed, 
and every pang extinguished. 

Hence, in all nations, a set of names have arisen to con- 
vey the idea of death, congenial with these sentiments, and 
all of them expressive of supreme felicity and consolation. 
How does the human mind, pressed by real or imagined 
calamities, delight to dwell upon that awful event which 
leads to deliverance, and to describe and solicit it with the 
fairest flowers of fancy ! 

It is called the harbour of rest, in whose deep bosom the 
disastered mariner, who had long sustained the assaults of 
adverse storms, moors his wearied vessel, never more to 
return to the tossings of the wasteful ocean. It is called 
the land of peace, whither the friendless exile retires, be- 
yond the reach of malice and injustice, and the crudest 
arrows of fortune. It is called the hospitable house, where 
the weather-beaten traveller, faint with traversing pathless 
deserts, finds a welcome and secure repose. 

There no cares molest, no passions distract, no enemies 
defame ; there agonizing pain, and wounding infamy, and 
ruthless revenge, are no more ; but profound peace, and 
calm passions, and security which is immoveable. " There 
the wicked cease from troubling ; there the weary are at 
rest ! There the prisoners rest together ! they hear not the 
voice of the oppressor ! The small and the great are there, 
and the servant is free from his master !" 

* Prmi. skeiz. t Pron. nuth-ing- 



NATIONAL READER. 51 



LESSON XXIV. 

On the custom of planting flowers on the graves of departed 
friends. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

To 'scape from chill misfortune's gloom, 
From helpless age and joyless years ; 

To sleep where flowerets round us bloom ; — 
Can such a fate deserve our tears ? 

Since, in the tomb, our cares, our woes, 

In dark oblivion buried lie. 
Why paint that scene of calm repose 

In figures painful to the eye ? 

To die ! — what is in death to fear ? 

'Twill decompose my lifeless frame ! 
A Power, unseen, still watches near. 

To light it with a purer flame. 

And, when anew that flame shall burn. 
Perhaps the dust, that lies enshrined, 

May rise, a woodbine, o'er my urn. 
With verdant tendrils round it twined. 

How would the gentle bosom beat. 
That sighs at death's resistless power, 

A faithful friend again to meet 

Fresh blooming in a fragrant flower ! 

The love, that in my bosom glow^s. 
Will live when I shall long be dead. 

And, haply, tinge some budding rose 
That blushes o'er my grassy bed. 

0, thou who hast so long been dear. 
When I shall cease to smile on thee, 

I know that thou wilt linger here. 
With pensive soul, to sigh for me. 

Thy gentle hand will sweets bestow. 
Transcending Eden's boasted bloom ; 

Each flower with brighter tints shall glow, 
When Love and Beauty seek my tomb. 



§2 NATIONAL READER. 

And, when the rose-bud's virgin breath 
With fragrance fills the morning air. 

Imagine me released from death, 
And all my soul reviving there. 



LESSON XXV. 



Thoughts of a young man in the prospect of death. — 
Henry K. White. 

Sad, solitary Thought^ w^ho keep'st thy vigils, 
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind. 
Communing lonely with his sinking soul. 
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 
In dim obscurity before him, — thee. 
Wrapped in thy dark magnificence, I call 
At this still, midnight hour, this awful season, 
When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 
I turn me, wearisome. While all, around, 
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, 
I only wake to watch the sickly taper 
Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand 
Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals,^ 
Slow-sapping the warm current of existence. 

My moments now are few. — The sand of life 
Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little. 
And the last fleeting particle will fall, 
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 
Come, then, sad Thought, and let us meditate. 
While meditate we may. — There's left us now 
But a small portion of what men call time, 
To hold communion ; for, even now, the knife. 
The separating knife, I feel divide 
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 
Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 
And though, to me, life has been dark and dreary, 
Though hope, for me, has smiled but to deceive, 
And disappointment marked me as her victim, 
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me. 
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death. 
The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 



NATIONAL READER. 53 

Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 
Of earthly happiness — romantic schemes, 
And fraught with loveliness : — and it is hard 
To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps. 
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, 
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades. 
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 
O, none : — another busy brood of beings 
Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink 
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
Of busy London : — some short bustle's caused, 
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in. 
And all's forgotten. On my grassy grave 
The men of future times will careless tread, 
And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 
Recall my vanished memory. I did hope 
For better things : — I hoped I should not leave 
The earth without a vestige. Fate decrees 
It shall be otherwis-e, — and I submit. 

Henceforth, world, no more of thy desires ! 
No more of hope ! — the wanton, vagrant hope ! 
I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me, 
And my tired soul, with emulative haste. 
Looks to its God, and plumes its wings for heaven. 



LESSON XXVI. 
The Grave. — Bernard Barton. 

I LOVE to muse, when none are nigh, 
Where yew tree branches wave, 

And hear the winds, with softest sigh, 
Sweep o'er the grassy grave. 

It seems a mournful music, meet 

To soothe a lonely hour ; 
Sad though it be, it is more sweet 

Than that from Pleasure's bower. 

5* 



54 NATIONAL READEH. 

I know not why it should be sad, 

Or seem a mournful tone, 
Unless by man the spot be clad 

With terrors not its own. 

To nature it seems just as dear 

As earth's most cheerful site ; 
The dew-drops glitter there as clear, 

The sun-beams shine as bright. 

The showers descend as softly there 

As on the loveliest flowers ; 
Nor does the moon-light seem more fair 

On Beauty's sweetest bowers. 

" Ay ! but within — within, there sleeps 
One, o'er whose mouldering clay 

The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps, 
And wastes that form away." 

And what of that ? The frame that feeds 

The reptile tribe below, 
As little of their banquet heeds, 

As of the winds that blow. 



LESSON XXVIL 
The Fall of the Zeq/.— Milonov.* 

The autumnal winds had stripped the field 

.Of all its foliage, all its green ; 
The winter's harbinger had stilled 

That soul of song which cheered the scene. 

With visage pale, and tottering gait, 
As one who hears his parting knell, 

I saw a youth disconsolate : — 

He came to breathe his last farewell. 

** Thou grove t how dark thy gloom to me ! 
Thy glories riven by autumn's breath ! 

^ From Eo-\vr"mg's Russian Authology, Vol. II. 



' NATIONAL READER. 55 

In every falling leaf I see 
A threatening messenger of death. 

" jEsculapius !* in my ear 

Thy melancholy warnings chime : — 

* Fond youth ! bethink thee, tliou art here 
A wanderer — for the last, last time. 

^' Thy spring will winter's gloom o'ershade. 

Ere yet the fields are v/hite with snow j 
Ere yet the latest flowerets fade, 

Thou, in thy grave, wilt sleep below.' 

^' I hear the hollow murmuring — 

The cold wind rolling o'er the plain — 

Alas ! the brightest days of spring 

How swift ! how sorrowful ! how vain ! 

" wave, ye dancing boughs, wave I 
Perchance to-morrow's dawn may see 

My mother, v/eeping on my grave : — 
Then consecrate my memory. 

" I see, with loose, dishevelled hair, 

Covering her snowy bosom, come 
The angel of my childhood there, 

And dew, with tears, my early tomb, 

*' Then, in the autumn's silent eve, 

With fluttering wing and gentlest tread, 

My spirit its calm bed shall leave. 
And hover o'er the mourner's head." 

Then he was silent : — faint and slow 
His steps retraced : — he came no more : 

The last leaf trembled on the bough, 
And his last pang of life was o'er. 

Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps : — - 

The angel of his childhood there 
No watch around his tomb-stone keeps ; 

But, when the evening stars appear, 

* In the Greek mythology, the cock was one of the aiiimals consecrated to 
-Es^ulapius, the god of medicine. 



56 NATIONAL READER. 

The woodman, to his cottage bound, 
Close to that grave is wont to tread 

But his rude footsteps, echoed round, 
Break not the silence of the dead. 



LESSON XXVIIL 
Obedience to the Commandments of God rewarded. — Moodie. 

The heathen, unsupported by those prospects which the 
Gospel opens, might be supposed to have sunk under every 
trial ; yet, even among them, was sometimes displayed an 
exalted virtue : a virtue, which no interest, no danger, could 
shake : a virtue, which could triumph amidst tortures and 
death : a virtue, which, rather than forfeit its conscious in- 
tegrity, could be content to resign its consciousness forever. 
And shall not the Christian blush to repine ? — the Christian, 
from before whom the veil is removed ; to whose eyes are 
revealed the glories of heaven ? 

Your indulgent Ruler doth not call you to run in vain, or 
to labour in vain. Every difficulty, and every trial, that 
occurs in your path, is a fresh opportunity, presented by his 
kindness, of improving the happiness, after which he hath 
taught you to aspire. By every hardship which you sustain 
in the wilderness, you secure an additional portion of the 
promised land. What though the combat be severe ? A 
kingdom, — an everlasting kingdom, — is the prize of victory. 
Look forward to the triumph which awaits you, and your 
courage will revive. Fight the good fight, finish your 
course, keep the faith : there is laid up for you a crown of 
righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall 
give unto you at that day. 

What though, in the navigation of life, you have some- 
times to encounter the war of elements ? What though the 
winds rage, though the waters roar, and danger threatens 
around ? Behold, at a distance, the mountains appear : 
your friends are impatient for your arrival : already the feast 
is prepared, and the rage of the storm shall serve only to 
waft you sooner to the haven of rest No tempests assail 
those blissful regions which approach to view : all is peace- 
ful and serene : — there you shall enjoy eternal comfort ; and 
the recollection of the hardships which you now encounter 
shall heighten the felicity of better days. 



NATIONAL READER. 57 

LESSON XXIX. 

The Promises of Religion to the Young. — Alison. 

In every part of Scripture, it is remarkable with what 
singular tenderness the season of youth is always mention- 
ed, and what hopes are afforded to the devotion of the 
young. It was at that age that God appeared unto Moses, 
when he fed his flock in the desert, and called him to the 
command of his own people. It was at that age he visited 
the infant Samuel, while he ministered in the temple of the 
Lord, " in days when the word of the Lord was precious, 
and when there was no open vision." It v/as at that age that 
his spirit fell upon David, while he was yet the youngest of 
his father's sons, and when, among the mountains of Beth- 
lehem, he fed his father's sheep. It was at that age, also, 
"that they brought young children unto Christ, that he 
should touch them : And his disciples rebuked those that 
brought them : But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis- 
pleased, and said to them. Suffer little children to come 
unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of 
heaven." 

If these, then, are the effects and promises of youthful 
piety, rejoice, O young man, in thy youth ! — rejoice in those 
days which are never to return, when religion comes to thee 
in all its charms, and when the God of nature reveals him- 
self to thy soul, like the mild radiance of the morning sun, 
when he rises amid the blessings of a grateful world. 

If, already, devotion hath taught thee her secret plea- 
sures ; if, when nature meets thee in all its magnificence 
or beauty, thy heart humbleth itself in adoration before the 
Hand which made it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of 
the wisdom by which it is maintained ; if, when revelation 
unveils her mercies, and the Son of God comes forth to 
give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follov/s, with 
astonishment, the glories of his path, and pours, at last, over 
his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed ; if 
thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over the grave, and 
entereth, on the wings of faith, into that heaven " where 
he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high," 
and seeth the " society of angels, and of the spirits of just 
men made perfect," and listeneth to the " everlasting song 
which is sung before the throne :"■ — if such are the medita- 



58 NATIONAL READER. 

tions in which thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, 
for all that life can offer thee in exchange, these solitary 
joys. The world which is before thee, — the world which 
thine imagination paints in such brightness, — has no plea- 
sures to bestow which can compare -vvith these ; and all that 
its boasted wisdom can produce has nothing so acceptable 
in the sight of heaven, as this pure offering of thy infant 
soul. 

In these days, " the Lord himself is thy Shepherd, and 
thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the 
still waters" of youth, he now makes " thy soul to repose." 
But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its 
trials ; the evil days are on the wing, when " thou shalt say 
thou hast no pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance, 
"the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which 
thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it 
is to " remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." 
In these days of trial or of awe, " his spirit shall be with 
thee," and thou shalt fear no ill ; and, amid every evil 
which surrounds thee, "he shall restore thy soul. His 
goodness and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy 
life ;" and when, at last, " the silver cord is loosed," thy 
spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt 
dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 



LESSON XXX. 
On the Swiftness of Time. — Dr. Johnson. 

The natural advantages, which aris€ from the position of 
the earth which we inhabit, with respect to the other pla- 
nets, afford much employment to mathematical speculation, 
by which it has been discovered, that no other conformation 
of the system could have given such commodious distribu- 
tions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to 
so great a part of a revolving sphere. 

It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal 
reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the resi- 
dence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose 
task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of 
existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution and activity 
of virtue. 



NATIONAL READER. 59 

The duties required of man are such as human nature 
does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined 
to delay, who yet intend, some time, to lulfil them. It was, 
therefore, necessary, that this universal reluctance should be 
counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into 
resolve ; that the danger of procrastination should be always 
in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected. 

To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly con- 
spire. Whatever we see, on every side, reminds us of the 
lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night suc- 
ceed each other ; the rotation of seasons diversifies the year ; 
the sun irises, attains the meridian, declines and sets; and 
the moon, every night, changes its form. 

The day has been considered as an image of the year, 
and a year as the representation of life. The morning 
answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and 
youth. The noon corresponds to the summer, and the sum- 
mer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an em- 
.blem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night, 
with its silence and darkness, shows the winter, in which 
all the powers of vegetation are benumbed ; and the winter 
points out the time when life shall cease, with its hopes and 
pleasures. 

He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion 
equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by 
the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls 
thus silently along, passed on through undistinguishable uni- 
formity, we should never mark its approaches to the end of 
the course. If one hour were like another ; if the passage of 
the sun did not show that the day is wasting ; if the change 
of seasons did not impress upon as the flight of the year, — 
quantities of duration, equal to days and years, would glide 
imobserved. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, 
we should never discern their departure or succession ; but 
should live, thoughtless of the past, and careless of the fu- 
ture, without will, and, perhaps, witliout power, to compute 
the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already 
lost with that which may probably remain. 

But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is even 
observed by the passage, and by nations who have raised 
their minds very little above animal instinct : there are 
human beings, whose language does not supply them with 
words by which they can number five, but I have read of 
none that have not names for day and night, for summer 
and winter. 



60 NATIONAL READER. 

Yet it is certain, that these admonitions of nature, how- 
ever forcible, however importunate, are too often vain ; and 
that many, who mark with such accuracy the course of 
time, appear to have little sensibility of the decline of life. 
Every man has something to do, which he neglects ; every 
man has faults to conquer, which he delays to combat.* 

So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects 
of time, that things necessary and certain often surprise us 
like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in 
her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, 
at our return, to find her faded. We meet those whom we 
left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat 
them as men. The traveller visits, in age, those countries 
through which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for mer- 
riment at the old place. The man of business, wearied 
with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town of his 
nativity, and expects to play away his last years with the 
companions of his childhood, and recover youth in the 
fields where he once was young. 

From this inattention, so general and so mischievous, let 
it be every man's study to exempt himself. Let him that 
desires to see others happy, make haste to give while his 
gift can be enjoyed, and remember, that every moment of 
delay takes away something from the value of his benefac- 
tion : and let him, who proposes his own happiness, reflect, 
that, while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and " the 
night Cometh, when no man can work." 



LESSON XXXL 



Lines vmtten by one ivho had long been resident in India, on hU 
f. return to his native country. — Anonymous. 

I CAME, but they had passed away — 

The fair in form, the pure in mind ; — 
And, like a stricken deer, I stray 

Where all are strange, and none are kind, — 
Kind to the worn, the wearied soul. 

That pants, that struggles, for repose. 
that my steps had reached the goal 

Where" earthly sighs and sorrows close ! 

■^ Pron. cum^-bnt. 



NATIONAL READER. 6l 

Years have passed o'er me, like a dream 

That leaves no trace on memory's page : 
I look around me, and I seem 

Some relic of a former age. 
Alone, as in a stranger clime, 

Wliere stranger voices mock my ear, 
I mark the lagging course of time, 

Without a wish, — a hope, — a fear ! 

Yet I had hopes — and they have fled ; 

And fears — and they were all too true ; 
My wishes too — but they are dead ; 

And what have I vnih life to do ? 
'Tis but to wear a weary load 

I may not, dare not, cast away ; 
To sigh for one small, still abode, 

Where I may sleep as sweet as they ; — 

As they, the loveliest of their race, 

Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep, 
Whose worth my soul delights to trace, 

Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep,— 
To weep beneath the silent moon. 

With none to chide, to hear, to see : 
"Life can bestov/ no greater bpon 

On one, whom death disdains to free. 
**• 

I leave the world, that knows me not, 

To hold communion with the dead; 
And fancy consecrates the spot 

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 
I see each shade — all silvery white — 

I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; 
I turn to clasp those forms of light, — 

And the pale morning chills my eye. 

But soon the last dim morn shall rise, — 

The lamp of life burns feebly npw, — 
When stranger hands shall close my eyes, 

And smooth my cold and dewy brow. 
Unknown I lived ; so let me die ; 

Nor stone, nor monumental cross, 
Tell where his nameless ashes lie. 

Who sighed for gold, and found it dross. 



62 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XXXIL 

" He shall fly away as a dreatn.''^ — ^Anonymous. 

I DREAMED : — I saw a rosy child, 

With flaxen ringlets, in a garden playing ; 
Now stooping here, and then afar off straying, 

As flower or butterfly his fjeet beguiled. 

'Twas changed ; one summer's day I stepped aside. 
To let him pass ; his face had manhood's seeming, 
And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming 

On a fair maiden, whom he called his bride. 

Once more ; 'twas evening, and the cheerful fire 
I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding, 
The room with harmless pleasantry resounding ; 

And, in the midst,^ I marked the smiling sire. 

The heavens were clouded — and I heard the tone 
Of a slow-moving bell : the white-haired man had gone 



.^i 



L^SON XXXIIL 

The Journey of a Dcty, — A Picture of Human Life. — 
Dr. Johnson. 



Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early 
in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains 
of Hindostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was 
animated with hope ; he was incited by desire : he walked 
swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually 
rising before him. 

As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the 
morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the 
last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew 
by groves of spices : he sometimes contemplated the tow- 
ering height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and some- 
times caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest 
daughter of the spring : all his senses were gratified, and 
all care was banished from his heart. 



NATIONAL READER. 63 

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, 
and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then 
looked round about him for some more commodious path. 
He saw, on his right hand, a grove, that seemed to wave its 
shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the 
coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, 
however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a nar- 
row way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have 
the same direction mth the main road, and was pleased, 
that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite 
pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence 
without suffering its fatigues. 

He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without 
the least remission of his ardour, except that he was some- 
times tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the 
heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused 
himself with plucldng the flowers that covered the banks 
on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. 
At last, the green path began to decline from its first ten- 
dency, and to wind among the hills and thickets, cooled 
with fountains, and murmuring with water-falls. 

Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider, 
whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and com- 
mon track ; but, remembering that the heat was now in its 
greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, 
he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed 
only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the vari- 
eties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This 
uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every 
new object, and give way to every sensation that might 
soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mount- 
ed every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every 
cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a 
gentle river, that rolled among the trees, and watered a large 
region, with innumerable circumvolutions. 

In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted ; 
his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not 
towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and con- 
fused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet 
conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While 
he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was over- 



64 NATIONAL READER. ^ 

. -• 

spread witli clouds, tlie day vanished from before him, and 
a sudden tempest gathered round his head. 

He was now roused, by his danger, to a quick and pain- 
ful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness 
is lost when ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly 
impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, 
and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trilie 
to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, 
and a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, — 
to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to 
find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. 
He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his 
life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and 
tranquillity, and pressed on wdth his sabre in his hand ; for 
the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand 
w^ere heard the mingled howls of rage, and fear, and ravage, 
and expiration : all the horrors of darkness and solitude 
surrounded him ; the winds roared in the woods, and the 
torrents tumbled from the hills. 

" Worked into sudden rag'e by wintry showei*s, 
Do'A'n the steep hill the roaring torrent pours : 
The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise." 

Thus, forlorn and- distressed, he wandered through the 
wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he 
was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruc- 
tion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome 
him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he 
was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, 
when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a 
taper. He advanced towards the light, and, finding that it 
proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at 
the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before 
him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on 
which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the hermit, 
*' by what chance thou hast been brought hither : I have 
been now twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in 
which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related 
the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or 
palliation. 

" Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follies, the 
dangers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. 



NATIONAL READER. 65 

Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. 
We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of 
expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, with 
gayety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the 
straight road of piety, towards the mansions of r6st. In a 
short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find 
some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of 
obtaining the same end. 

" We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be 
terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own 
constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never 
to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in 
the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigi- 
lance subsides : we are then willing to inquire whether 
another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, 
at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We 
approach them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter them, 
but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass 
through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, 
for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to 
return. 

" But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance 
prepares us for another ; we, in time, lose the happiness 
cf innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifica- 
tions. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our ori- 
ginal intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational 
desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge our- 
selves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of incon- 
stancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and 
disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back 
upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; 
and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not for- 
saken the ways of virtue. 

^' Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy 
example, not to despair, but shall remember, that, though 
the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet 
remains one effort to be made ; that reformation is never 
hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the 
wanderer may at length return, after all his errors ; and 
that he, who implores strength and courage from above, shall 
find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, 
my son, to thy repose ; commit thyself to the care of Omni- 
potence ; and, when the morning calls again to toil, begin 
anew thy journey and thy life.'* 
6* 



66 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XXXIV. 

The Vision of Mirza. — Addison. 

Oti the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the 
custom of my forefathers, I always kept holy, after having 
washed myself, and oifered up my morning devotions, I 
ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest 
of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing 
myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound 
contemplation on the vanity of human life; and, passing 
from one thought to another, "Surely," said I, "man is but 
a shadow, and life a dream." 

Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
summit of a rock, that was not far from me, where I disco- 
vered one, in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instru- 
ment in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his 
lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceed- 
ing sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes, that were in- 
expressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything 
I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly 
airs, that are played to the departed souls of good men upon 
their first arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of 
the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that 
happy place. 

My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been 
often told, that the rock before me was the haunt of a Ge- 
nius ; and that several had been entertained with music, who 
liad passed by it, but never heard that the musician had 
before made himself visible. When he had raised my 
thoughts, by those transporting airs which he played, to 
taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him, 
like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the wav- 
ing of his hand, directed me to approach the place where 
he sat. 

I drew near, with that reverence which is due to a supe- 
rior nature; and, as my heart was entirely subdued by the 
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet, and 
wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
sion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, 
and, at once, dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with 
which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, 



NATIONAL READER. 67 

and, taking me by the hand, " Mirza," said he, " I have 
heard thee in thy soliloquies : follow me." 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and, 
placing me on the top of it, " Cast thy eyes eastward," 
said he, " and tell me what thou seest." " I see," said I, 
" a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling 
through it." " The valley that thou seest," said he, " is the 
valley of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is 
part of the great tide of eternity." ^* What is the reason," 
said I, " that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one 
endj and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ?" 

" What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eternity 
which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching 
from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Ex- 
amine now," said he, " this sea, tliat is thus bounded with 
darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it." 
" I see a bridge," said I, " standing in the midst of the tide." 
" The bridge thou seest," said he, " is human life : consider 
it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found 
that it consisted of three-score and ten entire arches, with 
several broken arches, which, added to those that were 
entire, made up the number about a hundred. 

As I was counting the arches, the Genius told me that 
this bridge consisted, at first, of a thousand arches ; but that 
a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the 
ruinous condition I now beheld it. '* But tell me farther," 
said he, " what thou discoverest on it." " I see multitudes 
of people passing over it," said I, " and a black cloud hang- 
ing on each end of it." 

As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the pas- 
sengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that 
flowed underneath it ; and, upon farther examination, per- 
ceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed 
in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, 
but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately 
disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at 
the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no 
sooner broke through the cloud, than many of them fell 
into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but 
multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the 
arches that were entire. 

There were indeed some persons,. — but their number was 
very small, — that continued a kind of hobbling march on the 



68 NATIONAL READER. 

broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being 
quite tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some 
time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and 
the great variety of objects which it presented. 

My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several 
dropping, unexpectedly, in the midst of mirth and jollity, 
and catching by every thing that stood by them to save 
themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens 
in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, 
stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy 
in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes an*d 
danced before them ; but often, when they thought them- 
selves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and 
down they sunk. 

In this confusion of objects, I observed some with cime- 
ters in their hands, and others with lancets, who ran to and 
fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors, 
which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they 
might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon 
them. 

The Genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy 
prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. " Take 
thine eyes oif the bridge," said he, " and tell me if thou 
yet seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." Upon look- 
ing up, " What mean," said I, " those great flights of birds 
that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling 
upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, 
cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, 
several little winged boys, that perch, in great numbers, 
upon the middle arches." 

" These," said the Genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Supersti- 
tion, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that 
infest human life." I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas !" 
said I, " man was made in vain ! how is he given away to 
misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in 
death!" The Genius, being moved with compassion to- 
wards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look 
no more," said he, " on man, in the first stage of his exists 
ence, in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on 
that thick mist, into which the tide bears the several genera- 
tions of mortals that fall into it." 

I directed my sight as I was ordered, and — ^whether or no 
the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, 



NATIONAL READER. &9 

or dissipated part of the mist, that was before too thick for 
the eye to penetrate — I saw the valley openiug at the farther 
end, aiid spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a 
huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on 
one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it : 
but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with 
innumerable islands,* that were covered with fruits and 
flov/ers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas, 
that ran among them. 

I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with gar- 
lands upon tlieir heads, passing among the trees, lying 
down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flow- 
ers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, 
falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 
Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might tly 
away to those happy seats ; but the Genius told me, there 
was no passage to them, except through the gates of death., 
that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 

'' The islands," said he, " that lie so fresh and green 
before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean 
appears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in num- 
ber than the sands on the sea shore. There are myriads of 
islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching 
farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can extend 
itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, 
who, according to the degrees and kinds of virtue"|' in which 
they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, 
which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, 
suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are 
settled in them. Every island is a paradise accommodated 
to its respective inhabitants. 

" Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending 
for ? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportuni- 
ties of earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, that 
will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man 
was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for 
him." I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on those happy 
islands. At length, said I, " Show me now, I beseech thee, 
the secrets that lie under those dark clouds, that cover the 
ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant." 

* Pron. V -lands. t Pron. vei-'-tshu. 



70 NATIONAL READER. 

The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to ad- 
dress myself to him a second time, but I found that he had 
left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been 
so long contemplating ; but, instead of the rolling ti5e, the 
arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the 
long, hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep and camels 
grazing upon the sides of it. 



LESSON XXXV. 
The World we have not seew.— Anonymous. 

There is a world we have not seen, 
That time shall never dare destroy, 

Where mortal footstep hath not been, 
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy. 

There is a region, lovelier far 

Than sages tell, or poets sing. 
Brighter than summer beauties are, 

And softer than the tints of spring. 

There is a world, — and O how blest ! — 
Fairer than prophets ever told j 

And never did an angel guest 
One balf its blessedness unfold. 

It is all holy and serene, 

The land of glory and repose ; 

And there, to dim the radiant scene, 
The tear of sorrow never flows. 

It is not fanned by summer gale ; 

'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers j 
It never needs the moon-beam pale. 

For there are known no evening hours. 

No : for this world is ever bright 
With a pure radiance all its own ; 

The streams of uncreated light 

Flow round it from the Eternal Throne. 



NATIONAL READER. 71 

There forms, that mortals may not see, 

Too glorious for the eye to trace, 
And clad in peerless majesty. 

Move with unutterable grace. 

In vain the philosophic eye 

May seek to view the fair abode, 
Or find it in the curtained sky : — 

It is THE DWELLING-PLACE OF GoD. 



LESSON XXXVI. 

The Better Land. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land ; 
Thou calPst its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? — 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? — 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ?" 
— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? — 
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas. 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child !*' 

" Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
i^nd the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the cor'al strand ? 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child ! 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ; 
•Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 



Tl NATIONAL READER. 

Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; 
Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb ; 

— It is there, it is there, my child !" 



LESSON XXXVII. 

Tlie Widow and her Son. — C. Edwards. 

" My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! 
My widow-comfort, and my son-ow's cure '"' 

Consumption is a siren. She can give a charm even to 
deformity. In my school boy days, there lived an aged 
widow near the church-yard. She had an only child. I 
have often observed, that the delicate, and the weak, re- 
ceive more than a common share of affection from a mo- 
ther. Such a feeling was shown by this widow towards 
her sickly and unshapely boy. 

There are faces and forms which, once seen, are impressed 
upon our brain ; and they will come again, and again, upon 
the tablet of our memory in the quiet night, and even flit 
around us in our day walks. Many years have gone by 
since I first saw this boy ; but his delicate form, his quiet 
manner, and his gentle and virtuous conduct, are often be- 
fore me. 

I shall never forget, — in the sauciness of youth, and fan- 
cying it would give importance to my bluff outside, — swear- 
ing in his presence. The boy v/as sitting in a high-backed 
easy chair, reading his Bible. He turned round, as if a sig- 
nal for dying had sounded in his ear, and fixed upon me his 
clear gray eye — that look ! it made my little heart almost 
choke me : — I gave some foolish excuse for getting out of 
the cottage ; and, as I met a playmate on the road, who 
jeered me for my blank countenance, I rushed past him, hid 
myself in an adjoining cornfield, and cried bitterly. 

I tried to conciliate the Vv idow's son, and show my sorrow 
for having so far forgotten the innocence of boyhood, as to 
have had my Maker's name sounded in an unhallowed man- 
ner from my lips : but I could not reconcile him. My spring 
flowers he accepted ; but, when my back was turned, he 
flung them away. The toys and books 1 offered to him 
were put aside for his Bible. His only occupations were^ 
the feeding of a favourite hen, which would come to his 



NATIONAL READER. 73 

chair and look up for the cnimbs he would let fall, with a 
noiseless action, from his thin fingers, watching the pendu- 
lum and hands of the wooden clock, and reading. 

Although I could not, at that time, fully appreciate the 
beauty of a mother's love, still I venerated the widow for 
the unobtrusive, but intense, attention she displayed to her 
son. I never entered her dwelling without seeing her en- 
gaged in kind offices towards him. If the sunbeam came 
through the leaves of the geraniums, placed in the window, 
with too strong a glare, she moved the high-backed chair 
with as much care as if she had been putting aside a crystal 
temple. When he slept, she festooned her silk handker- 
chief around his place of rest. She placed the earliest vio- 
lets upon her mantel-piece for him to look at; and the 
roughness of her own meal, and the delicacy of the child's, 
sufficiently displayed her sacrifices. Easy and satisfied, the 
widow moved about. I never saw her but once unhappy. 
She was then walking thoughtfully in her garden. I beheld 
a tear. I did not dare to intrude upon her grief, and ask 
her the cause of it ; but I found the reason in her cottage : 
her boy had been spitting blood. 

I have often envied him these endearments ; for I was 
away from a parent who humoured me even when I was stub- 
born and unkind. My poor mother is in her grave. I have 
often regretted having been her pet, her favourite : for the 
coldness of the world makes me wretched ; and, perhaps, 
if I had not drunk at the very spring of a mother's affection, 
I might have let scorn and contumely pass by me as the idle 
wind. Yet I have, afterwards, asked myself what I, a 
thoughtless though not heartless boy, should have come to, 
if I had not had such a comforter : — I have asked myself 
this, felt satisfied and grateful, and wished that her spirit 
might watch around a child, who often met her kindness 
with passion, and received her gifts as if he expected ho- 
mage from her. 

Every body experiences how quickly school years pass 
away ; and many persons regret their flight. As for myself, 
I do not wish for the return of boyhood's days. I cannot 
forget the harshness of my master. I cannot but know, that, 
if he had studied my character, and tempered me as the hot 
iron is made pliable, I should have been a diffc>ent and a 
better being. I still remember the tyr'anny of older spirits. 
School may have its pleasures ; but the sorrows of a think- 
ing boy are like the griefs of a fallen angel. 
7 



n NATIONAL READER. 

My father's residence was not situated in the village 
where I was educated ; so that, when I left school, I left 
its scenes also. 

After several years had passed away, accident took m& 
again to the well-known place. The stable, into which I 
led my horse, was dear to me ; for I had often listened to 
the echo that danced within it, when the bells were ringing. 
The face of the landlord was strange ; but I could not for- 
get the in-kneed, red-whiskered hostler* : he had given me 
a hearty thrashing as a return for a hearty jest. 

I had reserved a broad piece of silver for the old widow. 
But I first ran towards the river, and walked upon the mill- 
bank. I was surprised at the apparent narrowness of the 
stream ; and, although the willows still fringed the margin, 
and appeared to stoop in homage to the water lilies, yet they 
were diminutive ! Every thing was but a miniature of the 
picture within my mind. It proved to me that my faculties 
had grown with my growth, and strengthened with my 
strength. 

With something like disappointment, I left the river side, 
and strolled towards the church. My hand was in my 
pocket, grasping the broad piece of silver. I imagined to 
myself the kind look of recognition I should receive ; I de- 
termined on the way in which I should press the money 
into the widow's hand. But I felt my nerves lightly trem- 
ble as I thought upon the look her son had given, and again 
might give me. 

Ah, there is the cottage ! but the honey-suckle is older, 
and it has lost many of its branches ! 

The door was closed. A pet lamb was fastened to a 
loose cord under the window ; and its melancholy bleating 
was the only sound that disturbed the silence. In former 
years, I used, at once, to pull the string which assisted the 
wooden latch ; but now, I deliberately knocked. A strange 
female form, with a child in her arms, opened the door. I 
asked for my old acquaintance. " Alas ! poor Alice is in 
her coffin : look, sir, where the shadow of the spire ends : 
that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp of my money. " And 
her deformed boy ?" " He too, sir, is there !" I drew my 
hand from my pocket. 

It was L hard task for me to thank the woman; but I did 
so. I moved to tlie place where the mother and the child 
were buried. I stood for some minutes, in silence, beside 
the mcynd of grass. I thought of the consumptive lad; 

Pron. cs'Jer. 



NATIONAL READER. 76 

and, as I did so, the lamb at the cottage window gave its 
anxious bleat. And then all the affectionate attentions of 
my own mother arose on my soul ; while my lips trembled 
out — " Mother ! dear mother ! would that I were as is the 
widow's son ! would that I were sleeping in thy grave ! I 
loved thee, mother ! but I would not have thee living now, 
to view the worldly sorrows of thy ungrateful boy ! My 
iirst step towards vice was the oath which the deformed 
child heard me utter. 

" I have often wished my means were equal to my heart. 
Circumstances, alone, have unmade me. — And you, who 
rest here as quietly as you lived, shall receive the homage 
of the unworthy. I will protect this hillock from the steps 
of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the 
village herd. I will raise up a tabernacle to purity and 
love. I will do it in secret ; and I look not to be rewarded 
openly." 



LESSON XXXVIIL 
The Little Man in Black.— W. Irving. 

The following story has been handed down by family 
tradition for more than a century. It is one on which my 
cousin Christopher dwells, with more than his usual prolix- 
ity ; and I have thought it worthy of being laid before my 
readers. 

Soon after my grandfather. ]\Ir. Lemuel Cockloft, had 
quietly settled himself at the Hall, and just about the time 
that the gossips of the neighbourhood, tired of prying into 
his alfairs, were anxious for some new tea-table topic, the 
busy community of our little village was thrown into a grand 
turmoil of curiosity and conjecture, — a situation very com- 
mon to little gossiping villages, — by the sudden and unac- 
countable appearance of a mysterious individual. 

The object of this solicitude was a little, black-looking 
man, of a foreign aspect, who took possession of an old 
building, which, having long had the reputation of being 
haunted,* was in a state of ruinous desolation, and an object 
of fear to all true believers in ghosts. 

He usually wore a high sugar-loaf hat, with a marrow 
^ Ilaunt, pronounced to rhyme with aunt, not with warii. 



76 NATIONAL READER. 

brim, and a little black cloak, which, short as he was, 
scarcely reached below his knees. He sought no intimacy 
or acquaintance with any one ; appeared to take no interest 
in the pleasures or the little broils of the village ; nor ever 
talked, except sometimes to himself in an outlandish tongue. 

He commonly carried a large book, covered with sheep- 
sldn, under his arm ; appeared always to be lost in medi- 
tation ; and was often met by the peasantry, sometimes 
watching the dawn of day, sometimes, at noon, seated un- 
der a tree, poring over his volume, and sometimes, at eve- 
ning, gazing, with a look of sober tranquillity, at the sun, as 
it gradually sunk below the horizon. ^ 

The good people of the vicinity beheld something prodi- 
giously singular in ail this. A profound mystery seemed to 
hang about the stranger, which, with all their sagacity, they 
could not penetrate ; and, in the excess of worldly charity, 
they pronounced it a sure sign " that he w as no better than 
he should be:"— a phrase innocent enough in itself, but 
which, as applied in common, signifies nearly every thing 
that is bad. 

The young people thought him a gloomy mis'anthrope, 
because he never joined in their sports : — the old men 
thought still more hardly of him, because he followed no 
trade, nor ever seemed ambitious of earning a farthing : — 
and, as to the old gossips, baffled by the inflexible tacitur- 
nity of the stranger, they unanimously decreed, that a man, 
v/ho could not, or would not talk, was no better than a dumb 
beast. 

The little man in black, careless of tlreir opinions, seemedj 
resolved to maintain the liberty of keeping his own secret j 
and the consequence was, that, in a little while, the whoh 
village w^as in an uproar : for, in little communities of this' 
description, the members have always the privilege of being 
thoroughl}^ versed, and even of meddling, in all the atfairs 
of each other. 

A confidential conference was held, one Sunday morning, 
after sermon, at the door of the village church, and the 
character of the unknovsm fully investigated. The school- f 
master gave, as his opinion, that he was the wandering '' 
Jew : — the sexton was certain that he must be a free-mason, 
from his silence : — a third maintained, with great obstinacy, 
that he was a High German doctor, and that the book, which 
he carried about ^^^th him, contained the secrets of the 
black art : — ^but the most prevailing opinion seemed to be. 






NATIONAL READETl. 77 

that he was a witch, — a race of beings at that time abound- 
ing in those parts, — and a sagacious old matron proposed 
to ascertain the fact, by sousing him into a kettle of hot water. 

Suspicion, when once afloat, goes with wind and tide, 
and soon becomes certainty. Many a stormy night was the 
little man in black seen, by the flashes of lightning, frisking 
and curveting in the air upon a broomstick ; and it was 
always observable that, at those times, the storm did more 
mischief than at any other. The old lady, in particular, 
who suggested the humane ordeal of the boiling kettle, lost, 
on one of these occasions, a fine brindle cow ; which acci- 
dent was entirely ascribed to the vengeance of the little 
man in black. 

If ever a mischievous hireling rode his master's favourite 
horse to a distant frolic, and the animal was observed to be 
lame and jaded in the morning, the little man in black 
was sure to be at the bottom of the aff"air : nor could a high 
wind howl through the village at night, but the old women 
shrugged up their shoulders, and observed, that the little 
man in black was in his tantrums. 

In short, he became the bugbear of every house ; and was 
as effectual in frightening little children into obedience and 
hysterics as the redoubtable Raw-head-and-bloody-bones 
himself; nor could a house-wife* of the village sleep in 
peace, except under the guardianship of a horse-shoe nailed 
to the door. 

The object of these direful suspicions remained, for some 
time, totally ignorant of tlie wonderful quandary he had 
occasioned : but he was soon doomed to feel its eflects. An 
individual, who is once so unfortunate as to incur the odium 
of a village, is, in a great measure, outlawed and proscribed, 
and becomes a mark for injury and insult ; particularly if 
he has not the power, or the disposition, to recriminate. 
The little venomous passions, which, in the great world, 
are dissipated and weakened by being widely diflused, act, 
in the harrow limits of a country town, with collected vigour, 
and become rancorous, in proportion as they are confined in 
their sphere of action. 

The little man in black experienced the truth of this. 
Every mischievous urchin, returning from school, had full 
liberty to break his windows : and this was considered as a 
most daring exploit' ; for, in such awe did they stand of him, 
that the most adventurous school-boy was never seen to 

* Prm. huz'-wiff. 
7* 



78 NATIONAL READER. 

approach his threshold ; and, at night, would prefer going 
round by the by-roads, where a trav eller had been murdered 
by the Indians, rather than pass by the door of his forlorn 
habitation. 

The only living creature, that seemed to have any care or 
affection for this deserted being, was an old turnspit, — the 
companion of his lonely mansion, and his solitary wander- 
ings, — the sharer of his scanty meal, and, — sorry am I to 
say it, — the sharer of his persecutions. The turnspit, like 
his master, was peaceable and inoffensive, — never known to 
bark at a horse, to growl at a traveller, or to quarrel with 
the dogs of the neighbourhood. 

He followed close at his master's heels, when he went 
out, and, when he returned, stretched himself in the sun- 
beams, at the door ; demeaning himself, in all things, like a 
civil and well disposed turnspit. But, notwithstanding his 
ex^'emplary deportment, he fell, likewise, under the ill report 
of the village, as being the familiar*^ of the little man in 
black, and the evil spirit that presided at his incantations. 
The old hovel was considered as the scene of their unhal- 
lowed rites, and its harmless tenants regarded with a de- 
testation! which their inoffensive conduct never merited. 

Though pelted and jeered at by the brats of the village, 
and frequently abused by their parents, the little man in 
black never turned to rebuke them ; and his faithful dog, 
when wantonly assaulted, looked up wistfully in his master's 
face, and there learned a lesson of patience and forbearance. 



LESSON XXXIX. 



The same, concluded. 



The movements of this inscrutable being had long been 
the subject of speculation at Cockloft Hall ; for its inmates 
were full as much given to wondering as their descendants. 
The patience with which he bore his persecutions, particu- 
larly surprised them; for patience is a virtue but little 
known in the Cockloft family. 

My grandmother, who, it appears, was rather superstitious, 
saw in this humility nothing but the gloomy sullenness of a 
wizard, who restrained himself for the present, in hopes of 

* A demon, supposed to attend at call : — Johnson, f Pron. det-tes-la'-sijun. 



NATIONAL READER. 79 

midnight vengeance. The parson of the village, who was 
a man of some reading, pronounced it the stubborn insensi- 
bility of a stoic philosopher. My grandfather, who, worthy 
soul, seldom wandered abroad in search of conclusions, took 
data from his own excellent heart, and regarded it as the 
humble forgiveness of a Christian. 

But, however different were their opinions as to the 
character of the stranger, they agreed in one particular, 
namely, in never intruding upon his solitude ; and my grand- 
mother, who was, at that time, nursing my mother, never 
left the room without wisely putting the large family Bible 
into the cradle, — a sure talisman, in her opinion, against 
witchcraft and nec'romancy. 

One stormy winter night, when a bleak north-east wind 
moaned about the cottages, and roared around the village 
steeple, my grandfather was returning from club, preceded 
by a servant with a lantern. Just as he arrived opposite 
the desolate abode of the little man in black, he was arrest- 
ed by the piteous howling of a dog, which, heard in the 
pauses of the storm, was exquisitely mournful ; and he fan- 
cied, now and then, that he caught the low and broken 
groans of some one in distress. 

He stopped for some minutes, hesitating between the 
benevolence of his heart, and a sensation of genuine delica- 
cy, which, in spite of his eccentricity, he fully possessed, 
and which forbade* hin^ to pry into the concerns of his- 
neighbours. Perhaps, too, this hesitation might have been 
strengthened by a little taint of superstition ; for, surely, if 
the unknown had been addicted to witchcraft, this was a 
most propitious night for his vaga'ries. 

At length the old gentleman's philanthropy predomi- 
nated : he approached the hovel, and, pushing open the 
door, — for poverty has no occasion for locks and keys, — 
beheld, by the light of the lantern, a scene that smote his 
generous heart to the core. 

On a miserable bed, with a pallid and emaciated visage, 
and hollow eyes, — in a room destitute of every convenience, 
without fire to warm, or friend to console him, — lay this 
helpless mortal, who had been so long the terror and won»- 
der of the village. His dog was crouching on the scanty 
coverlet, and shivering with cold. My grandfather stepped 
softly and hesitatingly to the bed-side, and accosted the 
forlorn sufferer in his usual accents of kindness. 

* ProTi. forbad. 



80 NATIONAL READER. 

The little man in black seemed recalled, by the tones of 
compassion, from the lethargy into which he had fallen ; 
for, though his heart was almost frozen, there was yet one 
<jhord that answered to the call of the good old man who 
bent over him : the tones of sympathy, so norel to his ear, 
called back his wandering senses, and acted like a restora- 
tive to his solitary feelings. 

He raised his eyes, but they were vacant and haggard : — 
he put forth his hand, but it was cold : — he essayed to 
speak, but the sound died away in his throat : — he pointed 
to his mouth, with an expression of dreadful meaning, and, 
sad to relate ! my grandfather understood, that the harmless 
stranger, deserted by society, was perishing with hunger. — 
With the quick impulse of humanity, he despatched the 
servant to the Hall for refreshment. A little warm nourish- 
ment renovated him for a short time, but not long : — it was 
evident that his pilgrimage was drawing to a close, and he 
was about entering that peaceful asylum, where " the wicked 
cease from troubling." 

His tale of misery was short, and quickly told. Infirmi- 
ties had stolen upon him, heightened by the rigours of the 
season : — he had taken to his bed, without strength to rise 
and ask for assistance : — " And if I had," said he, in a tone 
of bitter despondency, *' to whom should I have applied ? 
I have no friend, that I know of, in the world ! The vil- 
lagers avoid me as something loathsome and dangerous ; and 
here, in the midst of Christians, should I have perished 
without a fellow being to soothe the last moments of exist- 
ence, and close my dying eyes, had not the bowlings of my 
faithful dog excited your attention." 

He seemed deeply sensible of the kindness of my grand- 
father ; and, at one time, as he looked up into his old bene- 
factor's face, a solitary tear was observed to steal adown the 
parched furrows of his cheek. Poor outcast ! It was the 
last tear he shed ; — ^but, I warrant, it was not the first, by 
millions. 

My grandfather watched him all night. Towards morn- 
ing he gradually declined ; and, as the rising sun gleamed 
through the window, he begged to be raised in his bed, that 
he might look at it for the last time. He contem'plated it a 
moment with a kind of religious enthusiasm, and his lips 
moved as if engaged in prayer. The strange conjectures 
concerning him rushed on my grandfather's mind : — " He is 
an idolater," thought he, "and is worshipping the sun." 



NATIONAL READER. 81 

He listened a moment, and blushed at his own uncharitable 
suspicion. He was only engaged in the pious devotions 
of a Christian. 

Flis simple or'ison being finished, the little man in black 
withdrew his eyes from the east, and, taking my grandfather 
by the hand, and making a motion with the other towards 
the sun, — " I love to contemplate it," said he; ^'it is an 
emblem of the universal benevolence of a true Christian ; — 
and it is the most glorious work of Him who is philanthro- 
py itself." My grandfather blushed still deeper at his 
ungenerous surmises. He had pitied the stranger at first ; 
but now he revered him. He turned once more to regard 
him, but his countenance had undergone a change : — the 
holy enthusiasm, that had lighted up each feature, had given 
place to an expression of mysterious import : — a gleam of 
grandeur seemed to steal across his Gothic visage, and he 
appeared full of some mighty secret which he hesitated to 
impart. 

He raised his tattered night-cap, which had sunk almost 
over his eyes ; and, waving his withered hand with a slow 
and feeble expression of dignity — " In me," said he, with 
laconic solemnity, — " In me you behold the last descendant 
of the renowned Linkum Fidelius !" — My grandfather gazed 
at him with reverence ; for, though he had never heard of 
the illustrious personage, thus pompously announced, yet 
there was a certain black-letter dignity in the name, that 
peculiarly struck his fancy, and commanded his respect. 

" You have been kind to me," — continued the little man 
in black, after a momentary pause, — " and richly will I re- 
quite your kindness by making you heir of my treasures ! 
In yonder large deal box are the volumes of my illustrious 
ancestor, of which I alone am the fortunate possessor. In- 
herit them : — ponder over them, and be wise." 

He grew faint with the exertion he had made, and sunk 
back, almost breathless, on his pillow. His hand, which, 
inspired with the importance of the subject, he had raised 
to my grandfather's arm, slipped from his hold, and fell over 
the side of the bed ; and his faithful dog licked it, as if anx- 
ious to soothe the last moments of his master, and testify his 
gratitude to the hand that had so often cherished him. 

The untaught caresses of the faithful animal were not 
lost upon his dying master. He raised his languid eyes, — 
turned them on the dog, — then on my grandfather, — and, hav- 
ing given this silent recommendation, — closed them forever* 



82 NATIONAL READER. 

The remains of the little man in black, notwithstanding 
the objections of many pious people, were decently interred 
in the church-yard of the village : — and his spirit, harmless 
as the body it once animated, has never been known to 
molest a living being. My grandfather complied, as far as 
possible, with his request. He conveyed the volumes of 
Linkum Fidelius to his library : he pondered over them 
frequently : — ^but whether he grew wiser, the tradition does 
not mention. 

This much is certain, that his kindness to the poor de- 
scendant of Fidelius was amply rewarded by the approbation 
of his own heart, and the devoted attachment of the old 
turnspit; who, transferring his affection from his deceased 
master to his benefactor, became his constant attendant, and 
was father to a long line of runty curs, that still flourish in 
the family. And thus was the Cockloft library first enriched 
by the valuable folios of the sage Linkum Fidelius. 



LESSON XL. 



Danger of being a good Singer. — London Literary 
Chronicle. 

One of the pithy remarks in Lacon, though I cannot re- 
member the precise words, amounts to this ; that any man, 
who is an excellent amateur' singer, and reaches the age of 
thirty, without, in some way or other, feeling the ruinous 
effects of it, is an extraordinary* man. " True it is, and pity 
'tis 'tis true," that a quality so pleasing, and one that might 
he so innocent and so amiable, is often, through the weak- 
ness of " poor human nature," converted into a bane, — a 
very pest, — and occasions it to be remarked, when this mise- 
rable result occurs, that a man had better croak like a frog, 
than be a good singer. 

That the ruin too frequently occasioned by a man's being 
a good vocalist, arises from want of resolution, and from his 
inability to say no, when invited to a feast ; or, when there, 
to use the same denying monosyllable, when pressed to take 
another glass, and then — what then ? — why, another ; can- 
not be denied ; and that such is the manifest and frequent 
Consequence, he who runs may read ! 

A few mornings ago, I was accidentally reading the Morn- 
Prtm. ex-tror'-de-ner-e. 



NATIONAL READER. 83 

ing Herald, in the committee-room, when my attention was 
roused by a sort of debate at the table, between the presid- 
ing overseer, the master of the workhouse, and a pauper, 
who wanted permission to go out for a hoFyday. On raising 
my head, I discovered, in the pauper, a young man, rather 
above thirty, to describe whose carbuncled face would be 
impossible, and whose emaciated appearance bespoke pre* 
mature decay, and the grossest intemperance; whilst the 
faculties of his mind were evidently shown, by his conver- 
sation, to be as impaired as his body. 

To my surprise, I discovered, in this shadow of a man, 
one who had been, but a very few years prior to this, in a 
good business, from which his father had retired with a com- 
fortable fortune, and who is still living reputably in one of 
the villages adjoining the metropolis. At the time I speak 
of, I frequently met this young man at the Freemasons', the 
Crown and Anchor, and other taverns, where public din- 
ners are held, and where he was always hailed with rapture, 
as a second Braham ; and he really sung very delightfully ; 
but he could not stand the flattery attendant on it, and the 
hard drinking, which he thought necessary, poor fellow, but 
which is well known to be a singer's greatest enemy. 

He frequently attended two or three dinners in one day ; 
and, in short, he altogether verified the old proverb of " a 
short life and a merry one;" and, descending in the scale of 
society, step by step, he exchanged his elegant tavern dining, 
for evening clubs and free-and-easys, till, ejected from the 
public-house parlour, he sunk into a frequent'er of common 
tap-rooms, and an associater with the vilest of the vile, — he 
cared not whom, — and, provided he could get liquor to drink, 
he cared not what. 

His business had been entirely lost, long before this utter 

degradation ; though his friends had, from time to time, with 

great sacrifices, upheld him ; and he was, at the period 

spoken of, a pensioner on their bounty, and on the occa- 

j sional treats still procured by his failing voice ; till, at length, 

] linding he was attacked by a grim disease, and having be- 

1 come so lost to all decency of feeling as to make it impos- 

j sible for his friends to take him into their houses, the parish 

j workhouse was his only resource, where he is now paid for 

I by those friends ; an older man in constitution than his 

I father, though still, by age, he ought to be numbered with 

I oiir youths. 

1 After he had left the roomj the overseer told me that, 



84 NATIONAL READER. 

although he could not find it in his heart to refuse this 
lost being his request, yet he knew that he would only go 
begging round among his old friends and acquaintances, the 
consequence of which would, in all probability, be several 
days of intoxication before his return, when he would again 
come into the workhouse, in the same sickly state, from 
which, by good care and attention, he had been greatly re- 
lieved. 

Let this communication, every syllable of which is true, 
sink deeply into the hearts of all my young male readers, 
who are just entering into life, and who may happen to have 
tolerable voices. Singing is an elegant, but, as I have sho^vn, 
a dangerous accomplishment. Far be it from me to assert, 
that there are not many good singers, both public and private, 
who are prudent men. I have only sketched, feebly indeed, 
and slightly, what has been the result of musical talent of 
this sort, and what, therefore, may be the result again ; and 
I have good reason to know, that a fate, similar to the one 
I have related, has befallen many a man besides him of 
whom I have been writing, whose youthful pride has been 
to be called a good singer. 



LESSON XLL 

The Country Clergyman. — Goldsmith. 

/ Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The vil-age preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from tov/ns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour : 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, — 



lOIf 

{Hi 



;is house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast: 



NATIONAL READER. 85 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed J 
The broken soldier, kindly bade* to stay, 
Satef by his fire and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their wo ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

^hus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side : 
But, in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearmenV tries. 
To tempt its new-fiedged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, '~" 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, ^^'V 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
•^Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
^And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray/C 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Even children followed with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were' given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, ^^ 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the st^PI^ 
Though round its breast the roiling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

* Pro7i. bad. f Pron. sat. 

8 



86 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XLIL 
Parody* on the preceding. — Blackwood's Magazine, 

Near where yon brook flows babbling through the dell, 
From whose green bank those upland meadows swell, 
See where the rector's splendid mansion stands, 
Embosomed deep in new-enclosed lands, — 
Lands wrested from the indigent and poor. 
Because, forsooth, he holds the village cure-t 
A man is he whom all his neighbours fear, 
Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe j 
And starving, with a thousand pounds a year. 

Midst crowds and sports he passed his youthful prime ; 
Retirement had, with him, been deenied a crime : 
When the young blood danced joc'und through his veins, 
'Tis said his sacred stolej received some stains. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, 
By friends, or fawning, he lays claim to power : 
For, three fat livings own his goodly sway ; 
Two wretched curates starve upon his pay. 

Celestial Charity, that heavenly guest. 
Could ne'er find entrance to his close-locked breast : 
The common vagrants pass his well-known gate 
With terror's hasty step, and looks of hate ; 
For well they know the suffering poor he mocks ; 
Their wants are promised Bridewell] | or the stocks. 
The soldier, seamed with honourable scars. 
The sailor, hasting from his country's wars. 
In vain to him may tell their wo-fraught tale ; 
Their wounds, their eloquence, may not prevail : 
Though, by their valour, he in peace remains, 
He never gives a mite, to soothe the wanderers' pains. 

Thus to depress the wretched is his pride ; 
His seeming \irtues are to vice allied ; 
Backward to duty, hateful to his ears 
Sound the church bells to summon him to prayers ; 

* Parody ; — A kind of writing;, in which the words of an author, or his thought-s 
are taken, and, by a sHght change, adapted to some other subject, 
t Cure ; — The office or employment of a curate or clergyjuan. 
X Stole ; — A long robe worn by the clergy in England. 
II JSrzV«t'eZ/;~A house of correction. 



NATIONAL READER. 87 

And, like the wolf that stole mto the fold, 
And slew the sheep, in woolly vestments rolled, 
Still bent on gain, he watcheth night and day. 
To rend and make God's heritage his prey. 

Called to the bed where parting life is laid, 
With what reluctance is the call obeyed ! 
A few brief prayers in haste he mutters o'er. 
For time is precious, and the sick man poor ; 
Fancy, even now, depictures to his eye 
Some neighbour's pigs forth-issuing from the sty, 
Whose wicked snouts his new-formed banks uproot. 
Close in the ditch, and lop the hawthorn shoot. 
Full many a luckless hog, in morning round, 
He drives, deep grunting, to the starving pound. 

When in the church, that venerable place, 
A sullen frown o'erspreads his haughty face : 
A preacher's frown conviction should impart, 
But oft his smile should cheer the drooping heart. 
He blunders through the prayers with hasty will, — 
A school-boy would be whipped who read so ill, — 
Then mounts the pulpit with a haughty mien, 
Where more of pride than godliness is seen ; 
Some fifteen minutes his discourse will last, 
And thus the business of the week is past. 

The service o'er, no friendly rustics run 
To shake his hand ; his steps the children shun ; 
None for advice or comfort round him press. 
Their joys would charm not, nor their cares distress ; 
To notice them they know he's all too proud ; 
His liveried lackeys spurn the village crowd. 
When for the mourner heaved his breast the sigh ! 
When did compassion trickle from his eye ! 
Careless is he if weal or wo betide. 
If dues and tithes be punctually supplied. 

Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath given 
To be the guide of humble souls to heaven. 
To preach of heaven he'll sometimes condescend, 
But all his views and wishes earthward tend. 
Like a tall guide-post, towering o'er the w^ay. 
Whose lettered arms the traveller's route display. 
Fixed to one spot, it stands upon the down, 
Its hand still pointing to the distant town. 



88 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XLIIL 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize. — Goldsmith. 

Good people all, with one accord, 
Lament for Madam Blaize ; 

Who never wanted a good word — 
From those Vv ho spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom passed her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighbourhood to please 
With manner wonderous winning ; 

And never followed wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumbered in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 
By twenty beaux, and more ; 

The king himself has followed her-^ 
When she has walked before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all. 

Her doctors found, when she was dead — 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 
For Kent-Street well may say. 

That, had she lived a twelvemonth more- 
She had not died to-day. 



NATIONAL READER. 89 

LESSON XLIV. 

The sick Man and the Angel, — Gay. 

" Is there no hope ?" the sick man said : 
The silent doctor shook his head ; 
And took his leave with signs of sorrow, 
Despairing of his fee to-morrow. 
When thus the man, with gasping breath : 
" I feel the chilling hand of death. 
Since I must bid the world adieu, 
Let me my former life review. 
I grant my bargains were well made ; 
But all men over-reach in trade. 
'Tis self-defence in each profession : 
Sure self-defence is no transgression. 

" The little portion in my hands, 
By good security on lands. 
Is well increased. If, unawares. 
My justice to myself and heirs 
Hath let my debtor rot in jail. 
For want of good sufficient bail ; 
If I, by writ, or bond, or deed, 
Reduced a family to need ; 
My will hath made the world amends : 
My hope on charity depends. 
When I am numbered with the dead. 
And all my pious gifts are read. 
By heaven and earth ! 'twill then be known, 
My charities were amply shown." 

An Angel came. "Ah ! friend," he cried, 
" No more in flattering hopes confide : 
Can thy good deeds, in former times. 
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
What widow or what orphan prays 
To crown thy life with length of days ? — 
A pious action's in thy power : 
Embrace with joy the happy hour. 
Now, while you draw the vital air, 
Prove your intention is sincere : 
This instant give a hundred pound : 
Your neighbours want, and you abound." 
8* 



90 NATIONAL READER. 

" But why such haste ?" the sick man whines, 
" Who knows as yet what heaven designs ! 
Perhaps I may recover still : 
That sum, and more, are in my will." 

" Fool !" says the Vision, " now 'tis plain, 
Your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain : 
From every side, ^^dth all your might, 
You scraped, and scraped beyond yonr right ; 
And, after death, would fain atone. 
By giving what is not your own." 
"While there is life, there's hope," he cried : 
" Then why such haste ?" so groaned and died. 



LESSON XLV. 

The Voice of the Seasons. — Alison. 

There is, in the revolution of time, a kind of warning 
voice, which summons us to thought and reflection ; and 
every season, as it arises, speaks to us of the analogous cha- 
racter which we ought to maintain. From the first openings 
of the spring, to the last desolation of winter, the days of 
the year are emblematic of the state and of the duties of 
man ; and, whatever may be the period of our journey, we 
can scarcely look up into the heavens, and mark the path 
of the sun, without feeling either something to animate us 
upon our course, or to reprove us for our delay. 

When the spring appears, when the earth is covered with 
its tender green, and the song of happiness is heard in every 
shade, it is a call to us to religious hope and joy. Over the 
infant year the breath of heaven seems to blow with pater- 
nal softness, and the heart of man willingly partakes in the 
joyfuiness of awakened nature. 

When summer reigns, and every element is filled with 
life, and the sun, like a giant, pursues his course through 
the firmament above, it is the season of adoration. We 
see there, as it were, the majesty of the present God ; and, 
wherever we direct our eye, the glory of the Lord seems to 
cover the earth as the waters cover the sea. 

When autumn comes, and the annual miracle of nature is 
completed, it is the appropriate season of thankfulness and 
praise. The heart bends with instinctive gratitude before 



NATIONAL READER. 91 

Him, whose benevolence neither slumbers nor sleeps, and 
who, from the throne of glory, yet remembereth the things 
that are in heaven and earth. 

The season of winter has also similar instructions. To the 
thoughtful and the feeling mind it comes not without a bless- 
ing upon its wings-; and perhaps the noblest lessons of re- 
ligion are to be learned amid its clouds and storms. 



LESSON XLVL 

Anecdote of Richard Jackson. — London Quarterly Review. 

During the war of independence in North America, a 
plain farmer, Richard Jackson by name, was apprehended, 
under such circumstances as proved, beyond all doubt, his 
purpose of joining the king's forces ; an intention which he 
was too honest to deny ; accordingly, he was delivered over 
to the high sheriff, and committed to the county jail. The 
prison Vv^as in such a state, that he might have found little 
difficulty in escaping ; but he considered himself as in the 
hands of authority, such as it was, and the same principle 
of duty, which led him to take arms, made him equally ready 
to endure the consequences. 

After lying there a few days, he applied to the sheriff for 
leave to go out and work by day, promising that he would 
return regularly at night. His character for simple integrity 
was so well known, that permission was given without hesi- 
tation; and, for eight mouths, Jackson went out every day 
to labour, and as duly came back to prison at night. In the 
month of May, the sheriff prepared to conduct him to Spring- 
field, where he was to be tried for high treason. Jackson 
said, this would be a needless trouble and expense ; he could 
save the sheriff both, and go just as well by himself. 

His word was once more taken, and he set off alone, to 
present himself for trial and certain condemnation. On the 
way he was overtaken in the woods by Mr. Edwards, a mem- 
ber of the council of Massachusetts, which, at that time, was 
the supreme executive of the state. This gentleman asked 
him whither he was going. " To Springfield, sir," v/as 
his answer, " to be tried for my life." To this casual in- 
terview Jackson owed his escape, when, having been found 
guilty, and condemned to death, application was made to the 
council for mercy. 



92 NATIONAL READER. 

The evidence and the sentence were stated, and the pre- 
sident put the question, whether a pardon should be granted. 
It_was opposed by the first speaker : the case, he said, was 
perfectly clear ; the act was unquestionably high treason, 
and the proof complete ; and if mercy was shown in this 
case, he saw no reason why it should not Be granted in every 
other. 

Few governments have understood how just and politic 
it is to be merciful : this hard-hearted opinion accorded with 
the temper of the times, and was acquiesced in by one mem- 
ber after another, till it came to Mr. Edwards' turn to speak. 
Instead of delivering his opinion, he simply related the 
whole story of Jackson's singular demeanour, and what had 
passed between them in the woods. 

For the honour of Massachusetts, and of human nature, 
not a man was found to weaken its effect by one of those 
dry, legal remarks, which, like a blast of the desert, wither 
the heart they reach. The council began to hesitate, and, 
when a member ventured to say, that such a man certainly 
ought not to be sent to the gallows, a natural feeling of hu- 
manity and justice prevailed, and a pardon was immediately 
made out. 

Never was a stronger proof exhibited that honesty is wis- 
dom. And yet, it was not the man's honesty, but his child- 
like simplicity, which saved his life ; without that simplicity 
his integrity would have availed him little ; in fact, it was his 
crime ; for it was for doing what, according to the principles 
wherein he had been born and bred, he believed to be his 
duty, that he was brought to trial and condemned. — This it 
is which renders civil and religious wars so peculiarly dread- 
ful ; and, in the history of such wars, every incident, which 
serves to reconcile us to humanity, ought carefully to be pre- 
served. 



LESSON XLVIL 
Falls of Niag^ard. — Howison. 



The form of Niagara Falls is that of an irregular semi- 
circle,* about three quarters of a mile in extent. This is 



* Pron. sem'-e-ser-kl. 



NATIONAL READEB. 93 

divided into two distinct cascades by the intervention of 
Goat Island, the extremity of which is perpendicular, and 
in a line with the precipice, over which the water is pro- 
jected. The cataract on the Canada side of the river is 
called the Horseshoe, or Great Fs ♦!, from its peculiar form ; 
and that next the United States, the American 'Fall^ 

Three extensive views of the Falls maybe obtained from 
three different places. In general, the iirst opportunity tra- 
vellers have of seeing the cataract is from the high-road, 
which, at one point, lies near the bank, of the river. This 
place, however, being considerably above the level of the 
Falls, and a good way beyond them, affords a view that is 
comparatively imperfect and miirnposing. 

The Table Rock, from which the Falls of the Niagara may 
be contem'plated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level 
with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and in- 
deed forms a part of the precipice, over which the water 
rushes. It derives its name from the circumstance of its 
projecting beyond the cliffs that support it, like the leaf of a 
table. To gain this position, it is necessary to descend 
a steep bank, and to follow a path that winds among 
shrubbery and trees, which entirely conceal from the eye 
the scene that awaits him who traverses it. 

When near the termination of this road, a few steps car- 
ried me beyond all these obstructions, and a magnificent 
amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my vievv^ with appalling 
suddenness and majesty. However, in a moment, the scene 
was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, 
which involved me so completely, that I did not dare to ex- 
tricate myself. 

A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I could 
see nothing, except when the wind made a chasm in the 
spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to encompass 
me on every side ; wdiile, below, a raging and foamy gulf, of 
undiscoverable extent, lashed the rocks with its hissing 
waves, nnd swallowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smok- 
ing floods that were precipitated into its bosom. 

At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but, after a few 
minutes, the sun burst forth, and the breeze, subsiding at 
the same time, permitted the spray to ascend perpendicu- 
larly. A host of pyram'idal clouds rose majestically, one 
after another, from the abyss at the bottom of the Fall ; and 
each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of the 
cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow^, which, in a few 



94 NATIONAL READER. 

moments, was gradually transferred into the bosom of the 
cloud that immediately succeeded. 

The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through 
a wide space directly over me, and, receiving the full influ- 
ence of the sun, exhibited a luminous and magnificent rain- 
bow, which continued to overarch and irradiate the spot on 
which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the 
indescribable scene. 

Any person, who has ner\'e enough, may plunge his hand 
into the water of the Great Fall, after it is projected over 
the precipice, merely by lying dovv'n flat, with his face be- 
yond the edge of the Table Rock, and stretching out his 
arm to its utmost extent. The experiment is truly a horri- 
ble one, and such as I would not wish to repeat ; for, even 
to this day, I feel a shuddering and recoiling sensation when 
I recollect having been in the posture above described. 

The body of water, which composes the middle part of 
the Great Fall, is so immense, that it descends nearly two- 
thirds of the space without being ruffled or broken ; and the 
solemn calmness, with which it rolls over the edge of the 
precipice, is finely contrasted with the perturbed appearance 
it assumes after having reached the gulf below. But the 
water, toward^each side of the Fall, is shattered the moment 
it drops over the rock, and loses, as it descends, in a great 
measure, the character of a fluid, being divided into pyram- 
idal-shaped fragments, the bases of which are turned up- 
wards. 

The surface of the gulf, below the cataract, presents a 
very singular aspect; seeming, as it were, filled mth an im- 
mense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small and 
rapid undulations. The particles of- water are dazzlingly 
white, and do not apparently unite together, as might be 
supposed, but seem to continue for a time in a state of 
distinct comminution, and to repel each other with a 
thrilling and shivering motion, which cannot easily be de- 
scribed. . # * * * 

The road to the bottom of the Fall presents many more 
difficulties than that which leads to the Table Rock- After 
leaving the Table Rock, the traveller must proceed down 
the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small 
chasm in the bank, in which there is a spiral staircase en- 
closed in a wooden building. By descending the stair, 
which is seventy or eighty feet perpendicular height, he 
will find himself under the precipice, on the top of which 



NATIOx\AL READER. 95 

he formerly walked. A high but sloping bank extends 
from its base to the edge of the river ; and, on the summit 
of this, there is^ narrow, slippery path, covered with angular 
fragments of rock, which leads to the Great Fall. 

The impending cliffs, hung with a profusion of trees and 
bnishwood, overarch this road, and seem to vibrate with the 
thunders of the cataract. In some places they rise abruptly 
to the height of one hundred feet, and display, upon their 
surfaces, fossil shells, and the organic remains of a former 
world ; thus sublimely leading the mind to contem^plate the 
convulsions which nature has undergone since the crea- 
tion. 

As the traveller advances, he is frightfully stunned by the 
appalling noise ; clouds of spray sometimes envelope him, 
and suddenly check his faltering steps ; rattlesnakes start 
from the cavities of the rocks ; and the scream of eagles, 
soaring among the whirlwinds of eddying vapour, which 
obscure the gulf of the cataract, at intervals announces that 
the raging waters have hurled some bewildered animal over 
the precipice. . After scrambling among piles of huge rocks 
that obstruct his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the 
Fall, where the soul can be susceptible only of one emo- 
tion, — that of uncontrollable terror. 

It was not until I had, by frequent excursions to the Falls, 
in some measure familiarized my mind with their sublimities, 
that I ventured to explore the recesses of the Great Cata- 
ract. The precipice over which it rolls is very much arched 
underneath, while the impetus, which the water receives in 
its descent, projects it far beyond the cliff, and thus an im- 
mense Gothic arch is formed by the rock and the torrent. 
Twice I entered this cavern, and twice I was obliged to 
retrace my steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blast of 
dense spray that whirled around me : however, the third 
time, I succeeded in advancing about twenty-five yards. 

Here darkness began to encircle me. On one side, the 
black cliff stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above 
my head, and, on the other, the dense and hissing torrent 
formed an impenetrable sheet of foam, with which I was 
drenched in a m-oment. The rocks were so slippery, that I 
could hardly keep my feet, or hold securely by them ; while 
the hofrid din made me think the precipices above were 
tumbling down in colossal fragments upon my head. * * * * 

A little way below the Great Fall, the river is, compara- 
tively speaking, so tranquil, that a ferry-boat plies between 



96 NATIONAL READER. 

the Canada and American shores, for the convenience of 
travellers. When I i&rst crossed, the heaving flood tossed 
about the skiff w4th a violence that seemed very alarming ; 
but, as soon as we gained the middle of the river, my atten- 
tion was altogether engaged by the surpassing grandeur of 
the scene before me. 

I was now within the area of a semicircle of cataracts 
more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated on the 
surface of a gulf, raging, fathomless, and interminable. Ma- 
jestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, and columns of 
spray, were the gorgeous decorations of this theatre of won- 
ders; while a dazzling sun shed refulgent glories upon every 
part of the scene. — Surrounded with clouds of vapour, and 
stunned into a state of confusion and terror by the hideous 
noise, I ioo!i:ed upwards to the height of one hundred and 
fifty feet, and saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, 
vehemently bursting o\er the precipice, and rolling down, 
as if the windows of heaven were opened to pour another 
deluge upon the earth. 

Loud sounds, resembling discharges of artillery or volca- 
nic explosions, were now distinguishable amidst the watery 
tumult, and added terrors to the abyss from which they 
issued. The sun, looking majestically through the ascend- 
ing spray, was encircled by a radiant halo ; while fragments 
of rainbows floated on every side, and momentarily vanished, 
only to give place to a succession of others more brilliant. 

Looking backwards, I saw the Niagara River, again be- 
come calm and tranquil, roiling magnificently between the 
towering cliffs, that rose on either side. A gentle breeze 
ruffled the waters, and beautiful birds fluttered around, as if 
to welcome its egress from those clouds, and thunders, and 
rainbov/s, which were the heralds of its precipitation into 
the abyss of the cataract. 



LESSON XLVIIL 

Niag'ara Falls.* 



Tremendous torrent ! for an instant hush ^ 

The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 

* From tlie United Slates Review and Literary Gazelle, translated from tlu 
Spanish of Jose Maria Hekedia. 



NATIONAL READER. 97 

Those wide-invoh ing shadows, that my eyes 

May see the fearful beauty of thy face ! 

I am not all unworthy of thy sight ; 

For, from my very boyhood, have I loved, — ■ 

Shunning the meaner track of common miiids, — 

To look on nature in her loftier moods. 

At the fierce rushing of the hurricane. 

At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, 

I have been touched with joy ; and, when the sea, 

Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed 

Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved 

Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 

But never yet the madness of the sea 

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now. 

Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
Grow broken 'midst the rocks ; thy current then 
Shoots onward, like the irresistible course 
Of destiny. Ah ! terribly they rage — 
The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there I My braiii 
Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight 
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
Sweeps the wide torrent — waves innumerable 
Meet there and madden — waves innumerable 
Urge on and overtake the waves before. 
And disappear in thunder and in foam. 

They reach — they leap the barrier : the abyss 
Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. 
A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods 
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
Shatters to vapour the descending sheets : 
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
To heaven. The solitary hunter, near, 

Pauses with terror in the forest shades, 

# * * # 

God of all truth ! in other lands Pve seen 
Lying philosophers, blaspheming men. 
Questioners of tliy mysteries, that draw 
Their fellows deep into, impiety ; 
And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here 
My heart doth open all itself to thee. 
In this immensity of loneliness 
•0 



98 NATIONAL READER. 

I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
The eternal thunder of the cataract brings 
Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 

Dread torrent ! that with wonder and with fear 
Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 
Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself. 
Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, 
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs ? 
What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight 
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? 

The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand. 
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice 
To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 
Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. 
I see thy never-resting waters run. 
And I bethink me how the tide of time 
Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man, — 
Pass, like a noon-day dream, — the blossoming days, 
And he awakes to sorrow. * * * * 

Hear, dread Niagara ! my latest voice. 
Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse, 
Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile, 
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest. 
Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds 
To listen to the echoes of my fame. 



LESSON XLIX. 

Cataract at Terni.'* 



There is a rare union of beauty and grandeur in the 
Falls of Terni. Though the quantity of water be much 
less than the Rhine discharges at Schaffhausen, yet the 
scene is much more imposing, from the greater height of the 
precipice. Niagara alone more completely absorbs the ima- 

* This beautiful description is extracted from a very elegant volume published 
by Messrs. Constable and Co. in 1823, under the title of " Essays, descriptive 
find moral; or, Scenes in Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and France, — by a» 
American." 



NATIONAL READER. 99 

ginatiou. The American cataract has an overwhelming 
majesty that belongs to its flood of waters, and which, at 
first, stupifies the faculties of every observer ; but Terni has 
an attractive grandeur, which induces you to advance deli- 
berately to examine a wonder which nature and art have 
i-nited to produce. 

The rapids in the American river, before you reach the 
edge of the precipice, combined with the distant roar of the 
fails, form a more sublime spectacle than the full view of 
Schaffhausen, while the prospect from the Table Rock is 
like a glance into eternity. We are obliged to call up the 
force of our minds to keep us from recoiling with dread. 
But at the Cascata del Marmore, as this Italian waterfall is 
styled, the eye rests upon the scene with a pleasing asto- 
nishment, in which there is more of delight than terror. 

It is situated at a few miles distance from Terni. The 
country is beautifully romantic. The road lies, for the most 
part, through fields of olive trees. At Papinia you are 
obliged to leave the carriage ; and, after descending and 
crossing the Nera, and traversing a garden and beautiful line 
of orange trees, you approach the celebrated fall. 

When I saw it, the melting of the snow, and the late 
rains, had swollen the river to nearly double its ordinary 
size. This outlet for the lake Yelinus has been most hap- 
pily chosen ; for there are few situations where an artificial 
cataract could be more than beautiful ; but this is exquisite. 
An ancient castle crowns the summit of the lofty mountain 
near you; and numberless rills run down near the main 
sheet of water. 

But one of the most beautiful objects is occasioned by 
the quantity of foam produced by the fall, which ascends in 
clouds, and, being collected by a projecting ridge, runs 
down in innumerable little cascades ; and, as you cannot, at 
first, divine the cause, the rock seems bursting with the wa- 
ters it holds in its bosom. Besides its other attributes, this 
fall has the best of all charms, — association. It is in 
Italy ! it is a work of the Romans ! these foaming waters 
wash the walls of the Eternal City ! 

When the admirer of nature's wonders visits Niagara, he 
travels through extensive forests, just beginning to be the re- 
sidence of civilized men ; and he reflects upon the genera- 
tions of aboriginal inhabitants that vanished from these 
woods during many centuries, as the foam of the cataract 
has risen daily, to fall again, and to be swept away. But 



iOO NATIONAL READER. 

they have passed, and have left no memorial : the traveller 
is forced inward for topics of meditation : the scene wants 
drapery : it is too much like the summit of Chimborazo, — of 
unequalled loftiness, but freezing cold. 

On the contrary, the Fall of Veiino has been approached 
in a course from the vaie of Clitumnus towards the banks 
of the Tiber; the ruin of Augustus' bridge, at Narni, is to 
be the picture of to-morrow; Agrippa's Pantheon is soon to 
be seen. We have not the feeling of sadness, that we are 
at the end of an enjoyment, when we have beheld this won- 
der, — a sentiment which forces itself upon the traveller who 
stands between Erie and Ontario. Such causes give a rich- 
ness and mellowness to the scene, which cannot operate 
«pon the American cataract. 

Yet, with all this, if we could select but one of the two 
wonders to be seen, it would not be easy to decide between 
their respective claims. Men of the sterner mould would 
choose the object of unmingled sublimity, and those of 
milder sentiment, that which is the perfection of grandeur 
and beauty. It is not unlike a comparison between Homer 
and Virgil. * # * * 

The impression which is produced by the sight of a great 
waterfall is unique.* Unlike any of our other feelings, it 
makes the most giddy thoughtful, and offers many points of 
comparison with human life. The landmarks are perma- 
nent as the fields we live in ; the waters fleeting as our 
breath ; the plunge that they make into unknown depths, 
like our descent into the grave ; the rainbow, that sits upon 
the abyss, like our hope of immortality. 

There is the dread of danger, and the curiosity of hope, 
and the impression of the irresistible im'petus by which we 
are borne forward, to make us feel that we too are gliding 
onward, — though sometimes as unconscious as the bubble, — 
to the gulf of eternity, into which the troubled waters of life 
discharge themselves. An immortal and immutable condi- 
tion awaits us, though we sport with what seem to be the 
contingencies of existence. 

How often are we reckless of the star that might guide, 
and the chart that should direct us in our voyage, while we 
are floating onward and onward, with accelerated velocity, 
to the last leap of life ! It is the highest crime a man can 
commit against reason and revelation, if he venture to make 
that leap in the dark. 

^ Pron. u-neek'. 



NATIONAL READER. 101 

LESSON L. 

A West Indian Landscape. — Malte-Brun. 

In order to make our readers better acquainted with this 
country, we shall attempt to describe a morning in the An- 
tii'les. For this purpose, let us watch the moment when 
the sun, appearing through a cloudless and serene atmos- 
phere, illumines with his rays the summits of the moun- 
tains, and gilds the leaves of the plantain and orange trees. 
The plants are spread over with gossamer of fine and trans- 
parent silk, or gemmed with dew-drops and the vivid hues 
of industrious insects, reflecting unnumbered tints from the 
rays of the sun. 

The aspect of the richly cultivated valleys is different, but 
not less pleasing ; the whole of nature teems with the most 
varied productions. It often happens, after the sun has dis- 
sipated the mist above the crystal expanse of the ocean, 
that the scene is changed by an optical illusion. The spec- 
tator observes sometimes a sand-bank rising out of the deep, 
or distant canoes in the red clouds, floating in an aerial sea, 
while their shadows, at the same time, are accurately deli- 
neated below them. This phenomenon, to which the 
French have given the name of mirage^* is not uncommon 
in equatorial climates. 

Europeans may admire the views in this archipelagof 
during the cool temperature of the morning : the lofty 
mountains are adorned with thick foliage ; the hills, from 
their summits to the very borders of the sea, are fringed 
with plants of never-fading verdure ; the mills, and sugar- 
works near them, are obscured by their branches, or buried 
in their shade. 

The appearance of the valleys is remarkable. To form 
even an imperfect idea of it, we must groupj together the 
palm tree, the cocoa nut, and mountain cabbage, with the 
tamarind, the orange, and the waving plumes of the bam- 
boo cane. Fields of sugar-cane, the houses of the planters, 
the huts of the negroes, and the distant coast lined with 
ships, add to the. beauty of a West Indian landscape. At 
sun-rise, when no breeze ripples the surface of the ocean, it 
is frequently so transparent that one can perceive, as if there 

* Pron. me-rdzhe. f ar-ke-pel'-a-go, ^ groop. 

9* 



102 NATIONAL READEB. 

were no inteirening medium, the cliannel of tlie water, an< 
observe the shell-fish scattered on the rocks or reposing oi 
the sand. 

A hurricane is generally preceded by an awful stillness 
of the elements ; the air becomes close and heavy ; the sui 
is red ; and the stars at night seem unusually large. Fr( 
quent changes take place in the thermometer, which rises 
sometimes from eighty to ninety degrees. Darkness extendi 
over the earth \ the higher regions gleam with lightning. 

The impending storm is first observed on the sea: foaming 
mountains rise suddenly from its clear and motionless sur- 
face. The wind rages with unrestrained fury: its nois( 
may be compared to distant thunder. The rain descendsl 
in torrents ; shrubs and lofty trees aie borne down by the! 
mountain stream ; the rivers overflow their banks, and sub-j 
merge the plains. 

Terror and consternation seem to pervade the whole of 
animated nature ; land birds are driven into the ocean, and 
those whose element is the sea, seek for refuge in the woods. 
The frighted beasts of the field herd together, or roam in 
rain for a place of shelter. It is not a contest of two oppo- 
site winds, or a roaring ocean that shakes the earth : all the 
elements are thrown into confusion ; the equilibrium of the 
atmosphere seems as if it were destroyed ; and nature ap- 
pears to hasten to her ancient chaos. 

Scenes of sudden desolation have often been disclosed in 
these islands to the morning's sun : uprooted trees, branches 
shivered from their trunks, and the ruins of houses, have been 
strewed* over the land. The planter is sometimes unable to 
distinguish the place of his former possessions. Fertile 
valleys are changed in a few hours into dreary wastes, co- 
vered with the carcasses of domestic animals and the fowis 
ttf heaven. 



LESSON LI. 

Injhences of Natural Scenery favourable to Devotional 
Feelings. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

Whatever leads our minds habitually to the Author of 
the universe ; whatever mingles the voice of nature with 
the revelation of the Gospel ; whatever teaches us to see, 

* Pron. strewed. 



NATIONAL READER. 103 

in all the changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, 
in whom " we live, and move, and have our being," brings 
us nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind. But it is 
not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these re- 
flections are favourable to Christianity ; there is something, 
moreover, peculiarly allied to its spirit in such observations 
of external nature. 

When our Saviour prepared himself for his temptation, 
his agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea, 
to inhale, we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amidst 
its solitary scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion 
with his Father, amidst the sublimest of his works. It 
is with similar feelings, and to v/orship the same Father, 
that the Christian is permitted to enter the temple of 
nature ; and, by the spirit of his religion, there is a lan- 
guage infused into the objects which she presents, unknown 
to the worshipper of former times. 

To all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun 
shines, the same heavens are open ; but to the Christian 
alone it is permitted to knovv the Author of these things ; 
to see his spirit " move in the breeze and blossom in the 
spring ;" a,nd to read, in the changes which occur in the 
material world, the varied expression of eternal love. It is 
from the inliuence of Christianity, accordingly, that the key 
has been given to the signs of nature. It w&s only when 
the spirit of God moved on the face of the deep, that order 
and beauty were seen in the world. 

It is, accordingly, peculiarly v/ell worthy of observation, 
that the heautij of nature^ as felt in modern times, seems to 
have been almost unknovv^n to the writers of antiquity. They 
described, oceasionally, the scenes in which they dwelt ; 
but, — if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems to have 
anticipated, in this instance, the inliuence of the Gospel, — 
never with any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, as 
now, the citadel of Athens looked upon t\\& evening sun, 
and her temples flamed in his setting beam ; but what Athe- 
nian writer ever described the matchless glories of the 
scene ? Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the iEgean 
Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in the azure 
vault of heaven ; but what Grecian poet has been inspired 
by the sight ? 

The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless 
sky, and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around 
them ; yet even Eustace tells us--, that a few detached lines 



104 NATIONAL READER. 

is all that is left in regard to them hy the Roman poets. 
The Alps themselves, 

" The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowj- scalps, 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where i'ovms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow/' — 

even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man 
can behold, were regarded by the ancients ^vith sentiments 
only of dismay or horror ; as a barrier from hostile nations, 
or as the dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of reli- 
gion had not then lightened the face of nature ; they knew 
not the language which she spoke, nor felt that holy spi- 
rit, which, to the Christian, gives the sublimity of these 
scenes. 

There is something, therefore, in religious reflections on 
the objects, or the changes of nature, which is peculiarly 
fitting in a Christian teacher. No man will impress them 
on his heart without becoming happier and better, — without 
feeling warmer gratitude for the beneficence of nature, and 
deeper thankfulness for the means of knowing the Author 
of this beneficence which revelation has afforded. 

" Behold the lilies of the field," says our Savdour ; " they 
toil not, neither do they spin : yet, verily I say unto you, 
that even Solomon, in all his glory, w^as not arrayed like 
one of these." In these words, we perceive the deep 
sense which he entertained of the beauty even of the 
minutest of the works of nature. If the admiration of exter- 
nal objects is not directly made the object of his precepts, 
it is not, on that account, the less allied to the spirit of 
religion ; it springs from the revelation which* he has made, 
and grows with the spirit which he inculcates. 

The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, is pur- 
posely left to the human mind, that man may be induced to 
follow it from the charms which novelty confers ; and the 
sentiments which it awakens are not expressly enjoined, 
that they may be enjoyed as the spontaneous growth of oui: 
own imagination. While they seem, however, to spring up 
unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, produced by the 
spirit of religion ; and those who imagine that they are not 
the fit subject of Christian instruction, are ignorant of the 
secret workings, and finer analogies, of the faith which they 
profess. 



KATIONAL READER. 105 



LESSON LII. 

Passage of the Potomac and Shen'anddah Rivers through the 
Blue Ridge. — Jefferson. 

The passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, 
perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You 
stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes 
up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the 
mountain a hundred miles, to seek a vent. On your left 
approaches the Potomac, in quest of a passage also. In the 
moment of their junction they rush together against the 
mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 

The first glance of this scene hurries our senses into the 
opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow 
afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been 
dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have 
formed an ocean, w hich filled the whole valley ; that, con- 
tinuing to rise, they have, at length, broken over at this 
spot, and have torn the mountain down, from its summit to 
its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly 
on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture 
and avulsion from their beds, by the most powerful agents 
of nature, corroborate this impression. 

But the distant finishing, which nature has given to the 
picture, is of a very diiYerent character. It is a true contrast 
to the fore-ground. That is as placid and delightful, as this 
is wild and tremendous. For the mountain, being cloven 
asunder, presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small 
catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the 
plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and 
tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach and par- 
ticipate of the calm below. 

Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, 
too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Poto- 
mac above the junction, pass along its side through the base 
of the mountain, for three miles; its terrible precipices 
hanging in fragments over you. This scene is worth a voy- 
age across the Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood 
of the Natural Bridge, are people, who have passed their 
lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to 



106 NATIONAL READER. 

survey these monuments of a war between rivers and 
mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its 
centre. 



LESSON LIIL 

The Blind Boy. — Bloomfield. 

Where's the blind child, so admirably fair, 
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair 
That waves in every breeze ? He's often seen 
Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, 
With others, matched in spirit and in size. 
Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes. 
That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear, 
Soul of their sports, is duly cherished here ; 
And, hark ! that laugh is his, that jovial cry ; 
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by, 
And runs the giddy course with all his might, — 
A very child in every thing but sight. 

With circumscribed, but not abated powers, — 
Play the great object of his infant hours, — 
In many a game he takes a noisy part. 
And shows the native gladness of his heart. 
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent, 
The new suggestion and the quick assent : 
The grove invites, delight thrills every breast : 
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest. 
Away they start, — leave balls and hoops behind, 
And one companion leave, — the boy is blind ! 

His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, 
That childish fortitude awhile gives way : 
He feels his dreadful loss : yet short the pain : 
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again. 
Pondering ho\'^ best his moments to employ, 
He sings his little songs of nameless joy. 
Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour. 
And plucks, by chance, the.white and yellow flower 
Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knee». 
He binds a nosegay which he never sees ; 
Along the homeward path then feels his way. 
Lifting his brow against the shining day. 
And, with a playful rapture round his eyes. 
Presents a sighing parent with the prize. 



NATIONAL READER. 107 

LESSON LIV. 

A Thought on Death. — Mrs. Barbauld.* 

When life as opening buds is sweet, 
And golden hopes the spirit greet, 
And youth prepares his joys to meet, 

Alas ! how hard it is to die ! 

When scarce is seized some valued prize, 
And duties press, and tender ties 
Forbid the soul from earth to rise. 

How awful then it is to die ! 

When, one by one, those ties are torn. 
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, 
And man is left alone to mourn. 

Ah ! then, how easy 'tis to die ! 

When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
And films, slow-gathering, dim the sight, 
And clouds obscure the mental light, 

'Tis nature's precious boon to die ! 

When faith is strong, and conscience clear, 
And words of peace the spirit cheer, . 
And visioued glories half appear, 

'Tis joy, 'tis triumph, then to die ! 



LESSON LV. 

The Old Man's Fmeral. — Bryant. 

I SAW an aged man upon his bier : 

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
A record of the cares of many a year ; — 

Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed. 
And Avomen's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 

* WrltteD after she had passed her eightieth year. 



108 NATIONAL READER. 

Then rose another hoary man, and said, 
In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 

*' Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? 
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. 

" Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,-^ 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, — 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where the islands of refreshment lie, 

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. 

" Why weep ye then for him, who, having run 
The bound of man's appointed years, at last, 

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, 
Serenely to his final rest has passed ? 

While the soft memory of his virtues yet 
lingers, like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set. 

" His youth was innocent ; his riper age 

Marked with some act of goodness every day ; 

And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, 
Faded his late-declining years away. 

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 

" That life was happy ; every day, he gave 
Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 

For a sick fancy made him not her slave. 
To mock him with her phantom miseries. 

No chronic* tortures racked his aged limb, 
For luxury and sloth had nourished none'j' for him. 

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long; 

And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 

Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong^ 

Softly to disengage the \ital cord. 
When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 

* A dironic disease is one of locg daration. + Pron. nun. 



NATIONAL READER. 109 

LESSON LVL 

Sunday Evening. — Bo wring. 

How shall I praise thee, Lord of light ? 

How shall I all thy love declare ? 
The earth is veiled in shades of night; 

But heaven is open to my prayer ; — 
That heaven, so bright with stars and suns ; 

That glorious heaven, which knows no bound ; 
Where the full tide of being runs, 

And life and beauty glow around. 
From thence, — thy seat of light divine, 

Circled by thousand streams of bliss, 
Which calmly flow and brightly shine,-— , 

Say, to a world so mean as this, 
Canst thou direct thy pitying eye ? 

How shall my thoughts expression find; 
All lost in thy immensity ! 

How shall I seek, thou infinite Mind, 
Thy holy presence, God sublime ! 

Whose power and wisdom, love and grace, 
Are greater than the round of time, 

And wider than the bounds of space ! 

Gently the shades of night descend ; 

Thy temple. Lord, is calm and still ; 
A thousand lamps of ether blend, 

A thousand fires that temple fill. 
To honour thee. 'Tis bright and fair, 

As if the very heavens, impressed 
With thy pure image smiling there, 

In all their loveliest robes were dressed. 
Yet thou canst turn thy friendly eye 

From that immeasurable throne ; 
Thou, smiling on humanity, 

Dost claim earth's children for thy own, 
And gently, kindly, lead them through 

Life's varied scenes of joy and gloom, 
Till evening's pale and pearly dew 

Tips the green sod that decks their tomb. 
10 



110 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LVIL 
The Star of Bethlehem. — J. G. Percival. 

Brighter than the rising day, 

When the sun of glory shines ; 
Brighter than the diamond's ray, 

Sparkling in Golconda's mines ; 
Beaming through the clouds of wo, 

Smiles in Mercy's diadem 
On the guilty world below. 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

When our eyes are dimmed with tears, 

This can light them up again, 
Sweet as music to our ears, 

Faintly warbling o'er the plain. 
Never shines a ray so bright 

From the purest earthly gem ; 
! there is no soothing light 

Like the Star of Bethlehem. 

GriePs dark clouds may o'er us roll, 

Every heart may sink in wo,. 
Gloomy conscience rack the soul. 

And sorrow's tears in torrents flow ; 
Still, through- all these clouds and storms. 

Shines this purest heavenly gem. 
With a ray that kindly warms — 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

When we cross the roaring wave 

That rolls on life's remotest shore ; 
When we look into the grave. 

And wander through this world no more ; 
This, the lamp whose genial ray. 

Like some brightly-glowing gem, 
Points to man his darkling way — 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

Let the world be sunk in sorrow. 
Not an eye be charmed or blessed ; 

We can see a fair to-morrow 
Smiling in the rosy west ; 



NATIONAL READER. Ill 

This, her beacon, Hope displays; 

For, in Mercy's diadem, 
Shines, with Faith's serenest rays, 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

When this gloomy life is o'er, 

When we smile in bliss above, 
When, on that delightful shore. 

We enjoy the heaven of love, — 
! what dazzling light shall shine 

Round salvation's purest gem ! 
! what rays of love divine 

Gild the Star of Bethlehem! 



LESSON LVIIL 
The Funeral of Maria. — Mackenzie. 

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her 
form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, 
equally indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. 
To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every 
endeavour had been used, and had been attended with that 
success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when 
not prevented by mistaken fondness, or untimely vanity. 

Few young ladies have attracted more admiration ; none 
ever felt it less : with all the charms of beauty, and the 
polish of education, the plainest w^ere not less affected, nor 
the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every 
tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was 
ripening to reward them. 

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the 
softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The 
fall of more important personages is commonly distant from 
our observation ;, but, even where it happens under our im- 
mediate notice, there is a mixture of otheiyfee^gs, by which 
our compassion is weakened. ^ r^ ^ ' ♦ 

The eminently great, or extensivSy^useTul, leave behind 
them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expec- 
tations, by which the distress is complicated beyond the 
simplicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like Maria, 
was to shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a 



112 NATIONAL READER. 

father, and the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a 
little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive, 
and every heart can feel. 

On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze 
as upon those gallery pictures, which strike us with wonder 
and admiration : domestic calamity is like the miniature of 
a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret 
Jooks and solitary enjoyment. 

The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crowded 
assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed 
all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native 
dignity of her mien ; yet, so tempered was that superiority 
which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that 
Bot a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, 
©r the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition 
was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the 
sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my 
senses : I beheld the objects around me as the painting of 
a dream, and thought of Maria as still living. 

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The 
figure of her father bending over the grave of his darling 
child ; the silent, suffering composure, in which his counte- 
nance was fixed ; the tears of his attendants, whose grief 
was light, and capable of tears ; these gave me back the 
truth, and reminded me that I should see her no more. 
There was a flow of sorrow, with which I suffered myself 
to be borne along, with a melancholy kind of indulgence ; 
but when her father dropped the cord, with which he had 
helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin 
chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took place of 
pity! 

It was but for a moment. — He looked eagerly into the 
grave ; made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, 
who were throwing the earth into it ; then, suddenly recol- 
lecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his 
eyes to heaven ; and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from 
them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of 
faith, and pi^ty, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, 
but my sojfrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly ; I cast on 
this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity j and on 
the next, a look of humbleness and hope ! 

Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of 
scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid 
nor unthinking : for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the 



NATIONAL READER. 113 

i| 

' ascetic is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. 
i There needs a certain pliancy of mind, which society alone 
i can give, — though its vices often destroy it, — to render us 
! capable of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow 
I pleasant, and affliction useful. 

It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are 
j prompted to the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish solitude, 
i These are often the effects rather of passion secluded than 
I repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. 
j The crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the bones, 
if custom has not made them indiff"erent, will rather chill 
! desire than excite virtue ; but, amidst the warmth of social 
I affection, and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the 
' weakness, and enjoy the duties, of humanity. 

Perhaps it will be said, that such situations, and such re- 
flections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too 
tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons 
they impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much 
to the force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice. 

I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles, and 
long-established conduct, are suddenly to be changed by the 
effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment ; but, if it 
be granted that such change ever took place, who shall 
determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental im- 
pression, it was first begun ? And, even if the influence of 
such a call to thought can only smother, in its birth, one 
allurement to evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to vir~ 
tue, I shall not have unjustly commended that occasional 
indulgence of pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be 
rendered not only one of the refinements, but one of the 
improvements of life. 



LESSON LIX. 



A Leaf from " The Life of a Looking- Glass. '^^ — 
Miss Jane Taylor. 

It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even 
for obscure individuals to furnish some account of them- 
selves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not 
be deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few 
particulars of my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of 
10 * 



114 NATIONAL READER. 

any very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the 
course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for 
observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought 
it might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not 
be w^holly unprofitable to your readers. 

My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's 
workshop, where I remained for many months, leaning 
with my face to the wail ; and, having never known any 
livelier scene, I was very well contented with my quiet con- 
dition. The first object that I remember to have arrested 
my attention, was, what I now believe must have been, a 
large spider, which, after a vast deal of scampering about, 
began, very deliberately, to weave a curious web all over 
my face. This afforded me great amusement, and, not 
then knowing what far lovelier objects were destined to my 
gaze, I did not resent the indignity. 

At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, 
I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and, im- 
mediately afterwards, underwent a curious operation, which, 
at the time, gave me considerable apprehensions for my 
safety ; but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding 
myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved 
and gilt ; for, you will please to observe that the period, of 
which I am now speaking, was upwards of fourscore years 
ago. 

This process being finished, I was presently placed in the 
shop window, with my face to the street, which was one 
of the most public in the city. Here my attention was, at 
first, distracted by the constant succession of objects that 
passed before me. But it was not long before I began to 
remark the considerable degree of attention I myself ex- 
cited ; and how much I was distinguished, in this respect, 
from the other articles, my neighbours, in the shop window. 

I obser^"ed, that passengers, who appeared to be posting 
away upon urgent business, would often just turn and give 
me a friendly glance as they passed. But 1 was particularly 
gratified to observe, that, while the old, the shabby, and the 
wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the 
gay, and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment; 
and that these good-looking people always seemed the best 
pleased with me ; which I attributed to their superior dis- 
cernment. 

I well remember one young lady, who used to pass my 
master's shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, 



NATIONAL READER. 115 

and who never omitted to turn her head to look at me as 
she went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted 
with each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my 
life, I was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, 
from the regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I 
am not the only individaal, who has formed mistaken notions 
of the attentions he receives in society. 

My vanity, however, received a considerable check from 
one circumstance : nearly all the goods by which I was sur- 
rounded, in the shop window, — though, many of them, much 
more homely in their structure, and humble in their destina- 
tions, — were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the 
mortification of seeing one after another bargained for and 
sent away, while I remained, month after month, without a 
purchaser. 

At last, however, a gentleman and lady, from the country, 
who had been standing some time in the street, inspecting, 
and, as I perceived, conversing about me, walked into the 
shop ; and, after some altercation with my master, agreed 
to purchase me ; upon which, I was packed up, and sent 
off. I w^as very curious, you may suppose, upon arriving at 
my new quarters, to see what kind of life I was likely to 
lead. I remained, however, some time, unmolested in my 
packing-case, and very flat I felt there. 

Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself in the hall 
of a large, lone house in the country. My master and mis- 
tress, I soon learned, were new-married people, just setting 
up house-keeping ; and I was intended to decorate their 
best parlour, to which I was presently conveyed, and, after 
some little discussion between them, in fixing my longitude 
and latitude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, in an 
angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the fashion 
of those times. 

And there I hung, year after year, almost in perpetual 
solitude. My master and mistress were sober, regular, old- 
fashioned people ; they saw no company, except at fair time 
and Christmas-day ; on which occasions, only, they occupied 
the best parlour. My countenance used to brighten up, 
when I saw the annual fire kindled in that ample grate, 
and when a cheerful circle of country cousins assembled 
round it. At those times I always got a little notice from 
the young folks ; but, those festivities over, I was con- 
demned to another half year of complete loneliness. 

How familiar to my recollection, at this hourj is t};at large. 



116 NATIONAL READER. 

Qld-fashioned parlour ! I can remember, as well as if I had 
seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson 
damask chair-covers and window-curtains ; and those curi- 
ously carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one 
of the stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate, 
the rich China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece, and 
the pattern of the paper hangings, which consisted alternate- 
ly of a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess, — a parrot, a pop- 
py, and a shepherdess. 

The room being so little used, the window-shutters were 
rarely opened ; but there w^ere three holes cut in each, in 
the shape of a hearty through which, day after day, and 
year after year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sun- 
beams, streaming across the dark parlour. I should men- 
tion, however, that I seldom missed a short visit from my 
master and mistress on a Sunday morning, when they 
came down stairs ready dressed for church. I can re- 
member how my mistress used to trot in upon her high- 
heeled shoes ; unfold a leaf of one of the shutters ; then come 
and stand straight before me ; then turn half round to the 
right and left ; never failing to see if the corner of her well- 
starched handkerchief was pinned exactly in the middle. I 
think I can see her now, in her favourite dove-coloured 
lustring, (which she wore every Sunday in every summer 
for seven years at the least,) and her long, full ruffles, and 
worked apron. Then followed my good master, who, 
though his visit was somewhat shorter, never failed to come 
and settle his Sunday wig before me. 

Time rolled away, and my master and mistress, with all 
that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influ- 
ence. When I first knew them, they were a young, bloom- 
ing couple as you would wish to see ; but I gradually per- 
ceived an alteration. My mistress began to stoop a little ; 
and my master got a cough, which troubled him, more or 
less, to the end of his days. At first, and for many years, 
my mistress' foot upon the stairs was light and nimble, and 
she would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but, at 
last, it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's began 
to totter. And, in these respects, every thing else kept 
pace with them : the crimson damask, that I remembered so 
fresh and bright, was now faded and worn ; the dark polish- 
ed mahogany was, in some places, worm eaten ; the parrot's 
gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I myself, though 
long unconscious of it, partook of the universal decay. 



NATIONAL READER. 117 

The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first introduction 
to society, had, long since, subsided ; and the quiet, sombre 
life I led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change, 
which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to 
reflect much on their vanity ; and when, upon the occasions 
before-mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of 
the young saluting me with so much complacency, I would 
fain have admonished them of the alteration they must soon 
undergo, and have told them how certainly their bloom, 
also, must fade away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, 
sir, looking-glasses can only reflect. 



LESSON LX. 

The Silent Expression of Nature. — Anonymous.* 

•' There is no speech nor language — —their voice is not heard.'' — Ps, xix. 

When, thoughtful, to the vault of heaven 

I lift my wondering eyes, 
And see the clear and quiet even 

, To night resign the skies,^ — 
The moon, in silence, rear her crest, 

The stars, in silence, shine, — 
A secret rapture fills my breast, 

That speaks its birth divine. 

Unheard, the dews around me fall, 

And heavenly influence shed. 
And, silent, on this earthly ball, 

Celestial footsteps tread. 
Aerial music wakes the spheres, 

Touched by harmonious powers : 
With sounds, unheard by mortal ears, 

They charm the lingering hours. 

Night reigns, in silence, o'er the pole, 
And spreads her gems unheard : 

Her lessons penetrate the soul, 
Yet borrow not a word. 

* From " Musae Biblicse," published, London, 1819. 



118 NATIONAL READER. 

Noiseless the sun emits his fire, 
And pours his golden streams ; 

And silently the shades retire 
Before his rising beams. 

The hand that moves, and regulates, 

And guides the vast machine, — 
That governs wills, and times, and fates,- 

Retires, and works unseen. 
Angelic visitants forsake 

Their amaranthine bowers ; 
On silent wing their stations take. 

And watch the allotted hours. 

Sick of the vanity of man, — ■ 

His noise, and pomp, and show, — 
I'll move upon great Nature's plan, 

And, silent, work below. 
With inward harmony of soul, 

I'll wait the upper sphere ; 
Shining, I'll mount above the pole, 

And break my silence there. 



LESSON LXL 
A Thought. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

O COULD we step into the grave. 

And lift the coffin lid, 
And look upon the greedy worms 

That eat away the dead, — 

It well might change the reddest cheek 

Into a lily white. 
And freeze the warmest blood, to look 

Upon so sad a sight ! 

Yet still it were a sadder sight, 

If, in that lump of clay, 
There were a sense, to feel the worms 

So busy with their prey. 



NATIONAL READER. 119 

O pity, then, the living heart, — 

The lump of living clay, — 
On vi^hich the canker-worms of guijt 

Forever, ever prey. 



LESSON LXn. 

Fidelity. — ^Wordsworth. 

A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; — 
He halts, and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 
And now, at distance, can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern, 
From which immediately leaps out 
A dog, and, yelping, runs about. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
With something — as the shepherd thinks — 

Unusual in its cry : 
Nor is there any one in sight. 
All round, in hollow, or on height ; 
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear : — 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn* below ! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway or cultivated land, 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There, sometimes, does a lea,ping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer : 

The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere. 

* Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the movuitains. 



ISO NATIONAL READER. 

Thither the rainbow comes ; the cloud ; 
And mists, that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sun-beams ; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past : — 
But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 

Not knowing what to think, a while 

The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 

To'wards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone, before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground : 

Sad sight ! the shepherd, with a sigh, 

Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks, 

The man had fallen, — that place of fear ! — 
At length, upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear. 
He instantly recalled the name. 
And who he was, and whence he came j 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder now, for sake 
Of which this mournful tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 
This wonder merits well : — 

The dog, which still was hovering* nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry. 

This dog had been, through three months' space, 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes,"!" proof was plain, that, since the day 

On which the traveller thus had died, 
The dog had watched about the spot. 

Or by his master's side : 
How nourished here, through such long time,. 
He knows, who gave that love sublime, 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate. 

* Pron. iiuv'-ur-iag. ^ t yjss. 



NATIONAL READER. 121 

LESSON LXIIL 

Solitude. — Henry K. White. 

It is not that my lot is low, 
That bids this silent tear to flow : 
It is not grief that bids me moan : 
It is — that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or, by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet, when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sear and dead : 
It floats upon the water's bed : — 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh. 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale : — 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet, in my dreams, a form I view. 
That thinks on me, and loves me too : 
I start ; — and, when the vision's flown, 
I weep, that I am all alone. 



LESSON LXIV. 

Necessity of Industry^ even to Genius, — V. Knox. 

From the revival of learning to the present day, every 
thing that labour and ingenuity can invent, has been pro- 
duced to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. But, not- 
11 



122 NATIONAL READER. 

withstanding all the Introductions, the Translations, the An- 
notations, and the Interpretations, I must assure the student, 
that industry, great and persevering industry, is absolutely 
necessary to secure any very valuable and distinguished im- 
provement. Superficial qualifications are indeed obtained 
at an easy price of time and labour ; but superficial qualifica- 
tions confer neither honour, emolument, nor satisfaction. 

The pupil may be introduced, by the judgment and the 
liberality of his parents, to the best schools, the best tutors, 
the best books ; and his parents may be led to expect, from 
such advantages alone, extraordinary advancement. But 
these things are all extraneous. The mind of the pupil 
must be accustomed to submit to labour ; sometimes to pain- 
ful labour. 

The poor and solitary student, who has never enjoyed 
any of these advantages, but in the ordinary manner, will, 
by his o^vn application, emerge to merit, fame, and fortune ; 
while the indolent, who has been taught to lean on the sup- 
ports which opulence supplies, will sink into insignificance. 
His mind will have contracted habits of inactivity, and in- 
activity causes imbecility. 

I repeat, that the first great object is, to induce the mind 
to work within itself, to think long and patiently on the 
same subject, and to compose in various styles, and in vari- 
ous metres. It must be led not only to bear, but to seek, 
occasional solitude. If it is early habituated to all these ex- 
ercises, it will find its chief pleasure in them ; for the .ener- 
gies of the mind affect it ^\dtli the finest feelings. 

But is industry, such industry as I require, necessary to 
genius ? The idea, that it is not necessary, is productive of 
the greatest evils. We often form a wrong judgment in de- 
termining who is, and who is not, endowed with this noble 
privilege. A boy who appears lively and talkative, is often 
supposed by his parents to be a genius. He is suflfered to 
be idle, for he is a genius ; and genius is only injured by ap- 
plication. 

Now it usually happens, that the very lively and talkative 
boy is the most deficient in genius. His forwardness arises 
from a defect of those fine sensibilities, which, at the same 
time, occasion diflSdence and constitute genius. He ought 
to be inured to literary labour; for, without it, he will be 
prevented, by levity and stupidity, from receiving any 
valuable impressions. 

Parents and instructers must be very cautious how they 



NATIONAL READER. 123 

dispense with diligence, from an idea that the pupil posses- 
ses genius sufficient to compen'sate for the want of it. All 
men are liable to mistake in deciding on genius at a very early 
age ; but parents more than all, from their natural partiality. 

On no account, therefore, let them dispense with close 
application. If the pupil has genius, this will improve and 
adorn it ; if he has not, it is confessedly requisite to supply 
the defect. Those prodigies of genius, which require not 
instruction, are rare phenomena : we read, and we hear of 
such ; but few of us have seen and known such. 

What is genius worth without knowledge ? But is a man 
ever born with knowledge ? It is true, that one man is born 
with a better capacity than another, for the reception and 
retention of ideas ; but still the mind must operate in col- 
lecting, arranging, and discriminating those ideas, which it 
receives with facility. And I believe the mind of a genius 
is often very laboriously at work, when, to the common ob- 
server, it appears to be quite inactive. 

I most anxiously wish, that a due attention may be paid to 
my exhortations, when I recommend great and ex'emplary 
diligence. All that is excellent in learning depends upon it. 
And how can the time of a boy or young man be better em- 
ployed ? It cannot be more pleasantly ; for I am sure, that 
industry, by presenting a constant succession of various ob- 
jects, and by precluding the listlessness of inaction, renders 
life, at all stages of it, agreeable, and particularly so in the 
restless season of youth. 

It cannot be more innocently ; for learning ha« ^^connex- 
ion with virtue ; and he, whose time is fully engaggd, will 
escape many vices and much misery. It cannot be more 
usefully ; for he, who furnishes his mind wdth ideas, and 
strengthens his faculties, is preparing himself to become a 
valuable member of society, whatever place in it he may ob- 
tain ; and he is likely to obtain an exalted place. 



LESSON LXV. 

Story of Matilda. — Goldsmith. 

Our happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it 
about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. 
If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, 



124 ]NfATIONAL READER. 

told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing histo- 
rian. 

"Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan noble- 
man of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a 
mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood oiie day caress- 
ing her infant son in the open window of an apartment which 
hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sudden spring, 
leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared 
in a moment. 

" The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an 
effort to save him, plunged in after ; but, far from being able 
to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, escaped 
to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were 
plundering the country on that side, who immediately made 
her their prisoner. « 

" As the war was then carried on between the French 
and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going 
at once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by ap- 
petite and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was 
opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat re- 
quired the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
brought her in safety to his native city. 

" Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit, soon after, 
his heart. They were married : he rose to the highest posts : 
they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity 
of a soldier can never be called permanent. After an interval 
of several years, the troops which he commanded having 
met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the 
city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a 
siege, and the city at length was taken. 

. " Few histories can produce more various instances of 
cruelty, than those which the French and Italians, at that 
time, exercised upon each other. It v/as resolved by the 
victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners 
to death ; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting 
the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed 
almost as soon as resolved upon. 

" The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner 
with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy 
silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended 
till the general, who presided as judge, should give the sig- 
nal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that 
Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband an4 



NATIONAL READER. 125 

deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
of fate, that. had saved her from perishing by a premature 
death in the river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still great- 
er calamities. 

" The general, who was a young man, was struck with 
surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with 
still stronger emotions, when he heard her mention her 
former dangers. He was her son — the infant, for whom she 
had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her 
at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may 
be easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all the 
happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on 
each, was enjoyed." 



LESSON LXVL 

The Man of Ross.—Pope. 



But all our praises why should lords engross ? 
Rise, honest muse ! and sing the man of Ross ; 
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds. 
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow r 
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow ? 
Not to the skies in useless columns tossed, 
Or in proud falls magnificently lost. 
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain 
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? 
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? 
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? 
" The man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. 
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! 
The man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, 
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : 
Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed. 
The young who labour, and the old who rest. 

Is any sick ? The man of Ross relieves, 
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 
Is there a variance ? Enter but his door, 
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more. 
11 * 



12($ NATIONAL READER. 

Despairing quacks with curses fled the place. 
And vile attorneys, now a useless race. 

Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue 
What all so wish, but want the power to do ! 
say, what sums that generous hand supply r 
What mines to swell that boundless charity ? — 
Of debts, and taxes, wife, and children clear, 
This man possessed five hundred pounds a year. 
Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your blaze I 
Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays ! 

And what ! no monument, inscription, stone ! 
His race, his form, his name, almost unknown ! — 
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 
Will never mark the marble with his name. 
Go search it there, where to be born and die, 
Of rich and poor, makes all the history ; 
Enough, that virtue filled the space between ; 
Proved by the ends of being to have been. 



LESSON LXVIL 

Early Recollections. — New Monthly Magazine. 

It is delightful to fling a glance back to our early years, 
and recall our boyish actions, glittering with the light of hope 
and the sanguine expectations of incipient being. But the 
remembrance of our sensations when we were full of elasti- 
city, when life was new, and every sense and relish keen, 
when the eye saw nothing but a world of beauty and glory 
around, every object glittering in golden resplendency — is 
the most agreeable thing of all. - 

The recollection of boyish actions gives small gratification 
to persons of mature years, except for what may, perchance, 
be associated with them. But youthful sensations, experi- 
enced when the edge of enjoyment M^as most keen, and the 
senses exquisitely susceptible, furnish delightful recollections, 
that cling around some of us, in the last stage of life, like the 
principle of being itself. How do we recollect the exqui- 
site taste of a particular fruit or dish to have been then ! how 
delicious a cool draught from the running stream ! A land- 
scape, a particular tree, a field, how much better defined 
and delightfully coloured then, than they ever appeared after- 
wards I ***** * 



NATIONAL READER. 127 

There was a single tree opposite the door of my father's 
house : I remember, even now, how every limb branched off, 
and that I thought no tree could be finer or larger. I loved 
its shade ; I played under it for years ; but when I visited 
it, after my first absence for a few months from home, though 
I recognised it with intense interest, it appeared lessened in 
size ; it was an object I loved, but as a tree it no longer 
attracted wonder at its dimensions. During my absence I 
had travelled in a forest of much larger trees, and the plea- 
sure and well-defined image in my mind's eye, which I owed 
to the singleness of this object, I never again experienced in 
observing another. 

Can I ever forget the sunny side of the wood, where I 
used to linger away my hoFydays among the falling leaves 
of the trees in autumn I I can recall the very smell of the 
sere foliage to recollection ; and the sound of tlie dashing 
water is even now in my ear. The rustling of the boughs, 
the sparkling of the stream, the gnarled trunks of the old 
oaks around, long since levelled by the axe, left impressions 
only to be obliterated by death. The pleasure I then felt 
was undefinable ; but I was satisfied to enjoy without caring 
whence my enjoyment arose. 

The old church-yard and its yew-trees, where I sacrile- 
giously enjoyed my pastimes among the dead, — and the ivied 
tower, the belfry of which I frequently ascended, and won- 
dered at the skill, which could form such ponderous masses 
as the bells, and lift them so high, — these were objects that, 
on Sundays particularly, often filled my mind, upon view- 
ing them, with a sensation that cannot be put into lan- 
guage. 

It was not joy, but a soothing, tranquil delight, that made 
me forget, for an instant, that I had any desire in the world un- 
satisfied. I have often tho-ight since, that this state of mind 
must have approached pretty closely to happiness. As we 
passed the church-way path to the old Gothic porch on Sun- 
days, I used to spell the inscriptions on the tombs, and won- 
der at the length of a life that exceeded sixty or seventy 
years ; for days then passed slower than weeks pass now. 

I visited, the other day, the school-room where I had 
been once the drudge of a system of learning, the end of 
which I could not understand, and where, as was then the 
fashion, every method taken seemed intended to disgust the 
scholar with those studies he should be taught to love. I 
saw my name cut in the desk 5 I looked again on my old 



128 NATIONAL READER. 

seat ; but my youthful recollections of the worse than east- 
ern slavery I there endured, made me regard what I saw 
with a feeling of peculiar distaste. 

If one thing more than another prevent my desiring the 
days of my youth to return, it is the horror I feel for the de- 
spotism of the pedagogue. For years after I left school, I 
looked at the classics with disgust. I remembered the 
heart-burnings, the tears, and the pains, the monkish me- 
thod of teaching — now almost wholly confined to our public 
schools — had caused me. It was long before I could take 
up a Horace, much less enjoy its perusal. 

It was not thus with the places I visited during the short 
space of cessation from task and toil that the week allowed. 
The meadow, where, in true jovialness of heart, I had leaped, 
and raced, and played — this recalled the contentedness of 
mind, and the overflowing tide of delight I once experi- 
enced, when, climbing the stile which led into it, I left be- 
hind me the book and the task. How the sunshine of the 
youthful breast burst forth upon me, and the gushing spirit 
of unreined and innocent exhilaration braced every fibre, 
and rushed through every vein ! 

The sun has never shone so brilliantly since. How fra- 
grant were the flowers ! How deep the azure of the sky ! 
How vivid were the hues of nature ! How intense the short- 
lived sensations of pain and pleasure ! How generous were 
all impulses ! How confiding, open, and upright, all actions ! 
" Inhumanity to the distressed, and insolence to the fallen,** 
those besetting sins of manhood, how utterly strangers to 
the heart ! How little of sordid interests, and how much 
of intrepid honesty, was then displayed \ * * * * * 

The sensations peculiar to youth, being the result of im- 
pulse rather than reflection, have the advantage over those 
of manhood, however the pride of reason may give the lat- 
ter the superiority. In manhood there is always a burden 
of thought bearing on the wheels of enjoyment. In man 
hood, too, we have the misfortune of seeing the wrecks of 
early associations scattered every where around us. Youth 
can see nothing of this. It can take no review of antece- 
dent pleasures or pains that become such a source of melan- 
choly emotion in mature years. It has never sauntered 
through the rooms of a building, and recalled early days 
spent under its roof. 

I remember my feelings on an occasion of this sort, when 
I was like a traveller on the plain of Babylon, wondering^^ 



5s"ATI0NAL READER. 12^ 

where all, that had once been to me so great and mighty, 
tlien was ; in what gulf the sounds of merriment, that once 
reverberated from the walls, the master, the domestic, the 
aged, and the young, had disappeared. Our early recollec- 
tions are pleasing to us, because they look not on the mor- 
row. Alas ! what did that morrow leave when it had be- 
come merged in the past ! 

I have lately traversed the village in whicb I was born, 
without discovering a face that I knew. Houses have been 
demolished, fronts altered, tenements built, trees rooted up, 
and alterations effected, that made me feel a stranger amid 
the home of my fathers. The old-fashioned and roomy house, 
where my infant years had been watched by parental affec- 
tion, had been long uninhabited : it was in decay : the storm 
beat through ics fractured windows, and it was partly rooiiess. 
The garden, and its old elms, the scene associated with the 
cherished feelings of many a happy hour, lay a weedy waste : 

Amid thy desert walks the lapAving flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries3 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the ]<mg grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ! 

But the picture it presented in my youth exhibits it as 
true and vivid as ever. It is hung up in memory in all its 
freshness, and time cannot dilapidate its image. It is now 
become an essence, that defies the mutability of material 
things. It is fixed in ethereal colours on the tablets of the 
mind, and lives within the domain of spirit, within the cir- 
cumference of which the universal spoiler possesses no 
sovereignty. 



LESSON LXVIII. 
On visiting a Scene of Childhood, — Blackwoop's Magazine. 

^- 1 came to the place of my birth, and said, ' The friends of my youth, where 
are they V and Echo answered, ' Where are they V " 

Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene. 
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, — 
The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed 
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. 



130 NATIONAL READER. 

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there, 
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair, — 
All scattered ! — all sundered by mountain and wave, 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! 

I thought of the green banks, that circled around, 

With wild-flowers, and sweet-bxier, and eglantine crowned 

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

As' the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 

And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed. 
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade ; 
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind. 

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold. 
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'Twas a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, 
*' Like a tale that is told" — they had vanished away. 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along. 
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above. 
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart : — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart ! 
Our visions are baseless, — our hopes but a gleam, — 
Our stafl" but a reed, — and our life but a dream. 

Then, 0, let us look — let our prospects allure — 
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure, 
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 
O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time. 



NATIONAL READER. 131 

LESSON LXIX. 

The Little Graves. — Anonymous. 

'TwAS autumn, and the leaves were dry, 

And rustled on the ground, 
And chilly winds went whistling by, 

With low and pensive sound. 

As through the grave-yard's lone retreat, 

By meditation led, 
I walked, with slow and cautious feet, 

Above the sleeping dead, — 

Three little graves, ranged side by side, 

My close attention drew ; 
O'er two, the tall grass, bending, sighed,. 

And one seemed fresh and new. 

As, lingering there, I mused awhile 

On death's long, dreamless, sleep, 
And opening life's deceitful smile, 

A mourner came to weep. 

Her form was bowed, but not with years, 

Her words were faint and few, 
And on those little graves her tears 

Distilled like evening dew. 

A prattling boy, some four years old, 

Her trembling hand embraced. 
And from my heart the tale he told 

Will never be effaced. 

*' Mamma',* now you must love me more, 

For little sister's dead ; 
And t'other sister died before, 

And brother too, you said. 

'^ Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 

She loved me when we played : 
You told me, if I would not cry. 

You'd show me where she's laid." "*•'. 

* a sounded as in father^. 



132 NATIONAL READER. 

" 'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, 
^ Deep buried in the ground : 

No light comes to her little eyes, 
And she can hear no sound." 

" Mamma, why can't we take her up. 

And put her in my bed ? 
I'll feed her from my little cup. 

And then she won't be dead,. 

" For sister'U be afraid to lie 

In this dark grave to-night, 
And she'll be very cold, and cry, 

Because there is no light." 

" No, sister is not cold, my child ; 

For God, who saw her die. 
As he looked down from heaven and smiled, 

Recalled her to the sky. 

" And then her spirit quickly fled 
To God, by whom 'twas given ; 

Her body in the ground is dead, 
But sistet lives in heaven." 

" Mamma, won't she be hungry there. 
And want some bread to eat ? 

And who will give her clothes to wear, 
And keep them clean and neat ? 

" Papa' must go and carry some ; 

I'll send her all I've got ; 
And he must bring sweet sister home, 

Mamma, now must he not?" 

" No, my dear child, that cannot be ; 

But, if you're good and true, 
You'll one day go to her ; but she 

Can never come to you. 

" ' Let little children come to me^ 

Once our good Saviour said, 
And in his arms she'll always be, 

And God will give her bread." 



NATIONAL READER. 133 

LESSON LXX. 

Life and Death. — New Monthly Magazine. 

O FEAR not tliou to die ! 

But rather fear to live ; for life 
Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 

By peril, pain, and strife. 
Brief is the work of death ; 

But life ! — the spirit shrinks to see 
How full^ ere heaven recalls the breath, 

The cup of wo may be. 

fear not thou to die ! 

No more to suffer or to sin ; 
No snares without, thy faith to try, 

No traitor heart within : 
But fear, O ! rather fear, 

The gay, the light, the changeful scene, 
The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 

From heaven thy heart to wean. 

Fear, lest, in evil hour,— 

Thy pure and holy hope overcome, 
By clouds that in the horizon lower,— 

Thy spirit feel that gloom. 
Which, over earth and heaven. 

The covering throws of fell despair ; 
And deems itself the unforgiven, 

Predestined child of care. 

O fear not thou to die ! 

To die, and be that blessed one. 
Who, in the bright and beauteous sky, 

May feel his conflict done — 
May feel that, never more. 

The tear of grief or shame shall come, 
For thousand wanderings from the Power 

Who loved, and called him home ! 
12 



134 f: NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LXXL 

The Burial of Arnold.^ — Connecticut Journal. 

Ye've gathered to your place of prayer, 

With slow and measured tread : 
Your ranks are full, your mates all there — 

But the soul of one has fled. 
He was the proudest in his strength, 

The manliest of ye all ; 
Why lies he at that fearful length, 

And ye around his pall ? 

Ye reckon it in days, since he 

Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
With his dark eye flashing gloriously. 

And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
0, had it been but told you then, 

To mark whose lamp was dim, 
' From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men. 

Would ye have singled him ? 

Whose was the. sinewy arm, which flung 

Defiance to the ring ? 
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung. 

Yet not for glorying ? 
Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, 

No rivalry might brook, 
And yet distinction claiming not ? 

There lies he — go and look ! 

On now — his requiem is done, 

The last deep prayer is said — 
On to his burial, comrades — on, ^ 

With the noblest of the dead ! 
Slow — for it presses heavily — 

It is a man ye bear ! 
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 

On the noble sleeper there. 

Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid 
His dark locks on his brow — 

* A member of the senior class in Yale Collf>fre. 



NATIONAL READER. 135 

Like life — save deeper light and shade : — 

We'll not disturb them now. 
Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 

That blue veined eye-lid's sleep, 
Hiding the eye death left so dull-— 

Its slumber we will keep. 

Rest now ! — his journeying is done — 

Your feet are on his sod — 
Death's chain is on your champion-— 

He waiteth here his God ! 
Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 

To be heart-broken here — 
For the grave of earth's best nobleness 

Is watered by a lear. 



LESSON LXXII. 

Cruelty to Animals reproved. — Mavor. 

A YOUNGSTER, wliose name we shall conceal, because it 
is not for his credit it should be known, was amusing him- 
self with a beetle stuck on a pin, and seemed vastly de- 
lighted with the gyrations* it made, occasioned by the torture 
it felt. Harley saw this with emotion ; for he would not wan- 
tonly have injured the most contemptible animal that breathes. 
He rebuked the unfeeling youth in the following terms ; 
and the impression, which the lecture made, was never after 
effaced from his mind : " I am deeply concerned," said he, 
" to observe any one, whom I so tenderly love, fond of 
cruel sport. Do you think that the poor beetle, which you 
are thus agonizing, is incapable of sensation r And if you 
are aware that it feels pain as well as you, how can you 
receive amusement from its torture ? Animals, it is true,, 
were formed for the use of man ; but reason and humanity 
forbid us to abuse them. 

" Every creature, not immediately noxious to our kind, ought 
to be cherished, or, at least, not injured. The heart of sen- 
sibility bleeds for misery wherever it is seen. No amuse- 
ment can be rational that is founded on another's pain. I 
know you take delight in bird-nesting : I wish to discou- 
rage this pursuit too. 

*^ sounded like J. 



136 NATIONAL READER. 

" Consider liow little you gain, and how much distress you 
©ceasion to some of the most beautiful and lovely of crea- 
tion's tribes. You destroy the eggs, from which the fond bird 
hoped to rear an offspring ; or, what is still more cruel, you 
rob her of her young, when maternal care and affection are at 
the highest pitch. Could you possibly conceive what the 
parent bird must suffer from this deprivation, you would Be 
ashamed of your insensibility. 

" The nightingale, robbed of her tender young, is said to 
sing most sweetly ; but it is the plaintive voice of lacerated 
nature, not the note of joy. It should be heard as the ex- 
pression of distress ; and, if you are the cause of it, you 
ought to apply it to yourself. 

' O then, ye friends of love, and lovc-tau^hjt song, 
Spare the soft tribes ! this barbarous art forbear 
If on your bosom innocence can win. 
Music engage, or piety persuade !' 

■'^ Even the meanest insects receive an existence from the 
Author of our being; and why should you abridge their 
span ? They have their little sphere of bliss allotted them ; 
they have purposes, which they are destined to fulfil y and, 
when these are accomplished, they die. Thus it is with 
you ! You have, indeed, a more extensive range of action, 
more various and important duties to discharge ; and well 
will it be for you if you discharge them aright. 

^' But think not, because you have reason and superiority 
given you, that irrational animals are beneath your regard. 
In proportion as you enjoy the benefits they are adapted to j 
confer, you should be careful to treat them with tenderness , 
and humanity : it is the only return you can make. Re- ; 
member, every thing that has life is doomed to suffer and to | 
feel, though its expression of pain may not be capable of < 
being conveyed to your ears. 

" To the most worthless reptile, to the most noxious animal^ 
some pity is due. If its life is dangerous to you, it may be 
destroyed without blame ; but let it be done without cruel- 
ty. To torture is unmanly ; to tyrannise, where there can 
be no resistance, is the extreme of baseness. 

" I never knew an amiable person, who did not feel an 
attachment for animals. A boy who is not fond of his bird, 
his rabbit, his dog, or his horse, or whatever other creature 
he takes under his protection, will never have a good heart, 
and will always be wanting in affection to his own kind, : 



[NATIONAL READER. 137 

But he, w!io, after admonition, delights in misery, or sports 
with life, must have a disposition and a heart that I should 
blush to own : he is neither qualified to be happy himself, nor 
will he ever make others so.'' 



LESSON LXXIIL 



Impolicy and Injustice of Excessive Severity in Punishments. — - 
Goldsmith. 

It were highly to be wished, that legislative powder would 
direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it 
would seem convinced, that the work of eradicating crimes 
is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, 
instead of our present prisons, which find, or make men 
guilty ; w^hich enclose wretches for the commission of one 
crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per- 
petration of thousands ; it were to be wished, w^e had places 
of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be at- 
tended by such as could give them repentance^ if guilty, or 
new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the 
increasing of punishments, is the way to mend a state. 

Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 
right, which social combinations have assumed, of capitally 
punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder 
their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
law of self-defence, to cut off that man who hath shown a 
disregard for the life of another. Against such all nature 
rises in arms. 

But it is not so against him who steals my property. Na- 
tural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, 
the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, 
then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made be- 
tween us, that he, who deprives the other of his horse, shall 
die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a 
right to barter his life, any more than to take it away, as it 
is not his own. 

And, besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be 
set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great 
penalty for a trifling convenience ; since it is far better that 
two men should live, than that one should ride. But 
a compact that is false between two men, is equally so 
12* 



138 NATIONAL READER. 

between a hundred and a hundred thousand; for as ten 
millions of circles can never make a square, so the united 
voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to 
falsehood. 

It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says 
the same thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law 
alone, are tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom 
shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. ****** 

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriv- 
ing new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the 
cords of society, till a convulsion come to burst them ; in- 
stead of cutting away wretches as useless, before we have 
tried their utility ; instead of converting correction into ven- 
geance ; it were to be wished, that we tried the restrictive 
arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the 
tyrant, of the people. 

We should then find, that creatures, whose souls are held 
as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; we should then 
find, that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxu- 
ry should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, 
^erve to sinew the state in times of danger ; that, as their 
faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds 
are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man 
may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that very 
little blood will serve to cement our security. 



LESSON LXXIV. 

Address to Liberty. — Cowper. 

0, could I worship aught beneath the skies 
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, 
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand, 
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. 

Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; 
Again, when evening in her sober vest 
Drew the grey curtain of the fading west; 
My sold should yield thee willing thanks and praise 
For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 



NATIONAL READER. 

But that were sacrilege : praise is not thine, 
But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine 
Else I would say, — and, as I spake, bid fly 
A captive bird into the boundless sky, — 
This rising realm adores thee ; thou art come 
From Sparta hither, and art here at home ; 
We feel thy force still active ; at this hour 
Enjoy immunity from priestly power ; 
While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
Owns no superior, but the God she fears. 

Propitious Spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long ; 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care : 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood : 
And honest merit stands on slippery ground, 
Where covert guile, and artifice abound. 
Let just restraint, for public peace designed, 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; — 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee : — 
But let insolvent innocence go free. 



LESSON LXXV. 

The Hermit. — Beattie. 



At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, — ■ 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ;- 
'T\yas then, by the cave of the mountain afar. 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ;- 
No more with himself or with nature at war. 

He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man ; — 

" Ah, why, thus abandoned to darkness and wo, 
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 



NATIONAL READER. 

)ity inspire thee, renew thy sad lay ; 
Houm, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn : 
^soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away- 
Full quickly they pass — ^but they never return. 

'' Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 

The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays : 
But lately I marked, when, majestic on high. 

She shone, and the planets Vvere lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor again : 
But man's faded glory no change shall renew ! 

Ah fool ! to exull in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 

1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore. 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. 
Nor } et for the ravage of winter I mourn : 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
But v,hen shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 

when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !" 

^Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 

Destruction btfore me and sorrow behind : 
" pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 

" Thy creatare, who fain would not wander from thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'" 

And dark^iess and doubt are now flying away : 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray. 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
See Truth, Love and Mercy, in triumph descending, 

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, 

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 



NATIONAL READER. 141 

I 

LESSON LXXVL 

Hymn to the Stars. — Monthly Repository. 



Ay, there ye shine, and there have shone, 

In one eternal '■ hour of prime,' 
Each rolling burningly, alone, 

Through boundless space and countless time. 
Ay, there ye shine the golden dews 

That pave the realms by seraphs trod ; 
There, through yon echoing vault, diifuse 

The song of choral worlds to God. 

■Ye visible spirits ! bright as erst 

Young Eden's birthnight saw ye shine 
On all her flowers and fountains first. 

Yet sparkling from the hand divine ; 
Yes, bright as then ye smiled, io catch 

The music of a sphere so fair. 
Ye hold your high, immortal watch. 

And gird your God's pavilion there. 

Gold frets to dust, — yet there ye are ; 

Time rots the diamond, — there ye roll 
In primal light, as if each star 

Enshrined an everlasting soul ! 
And does it not — since your bright throngs 

One all-enlightening Spirit own. 
Praised there by pure, sidereal tongues, 

Eternal, glorious, blest, alone ? 

Could man but see what ye have seen, 

Unfold awhile the shrouded past, 
From all that is, to what has been. 

The glance how rich ! the range how vast ! 
The birth of time, the rise, the fall 

Of empires, myriads, ages flown, 
Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, — all 

The things whose echoes are not gone. 

Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send 

His soul into your mystic reign ; 
Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend-— ' 

The living hills his mighty fane ! 



142 NATIONAL READER. 

Beneath his blue and beaming sky, 
He worshipped at your lofty shrine, 

And deemed he saw, with gifted eye, 
The Godhead in his works divine. 

And there ye shine, as if to mock 

The children of a mortal sire. ^ 

The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock, 

The red volcano's cataract fire. 
Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame. 

All nature's ills, — and life's worse woes, — 
Are nought to you : ye smile the same. 

And scorn alike their dawn and close. 

Ay, there ye roll — emblems sublime 

Of Him, whose spirit o'er us moves. 
Beyond the clouds of grief and crime. 

Still shining on the world he loves : — 
Nor is one scene to mortals given. 

That more divides the soul and sod, 
Than yon proud heraldry of heaven — 

Yon burning blazonry of God ! 



LESSON LXXVH. 
Religion the only Basis of Society. — Channing. 

Religion is a social concern ; for it operates powerfully 
on society, contributing, in various ways, to its stability and 
prosperity. Religion is not merely a private affair; the 
community is deeply interested fti its diffusion ; for it is the 
best support of the virtues and principles, on which the so- 
cial order rests. Pure and undefiled religion is, to do good ; 
and it follows, very plainly, that, if God be the Author and 
Friend of society, then, the recognition of him must enforce 
all social duty, and enlightened piety must give its whole 
strength to public order. 

Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the ex- 
tent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
man, perhaps, is aware, how much our moral and social 
sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con- 
science would become, without the belief of ? God ; how 



NATIONAL READEK. 143 

palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the 
sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; 
how suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with 
what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, were 
the ideas of a supreme Being, of accountaijleness, and oi a 
future life, to be utterly erased from every mina. 

And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work 
and sport of chance ; that no superior intelligence concerns 
itself wdth human affairs ; that ail their improvements perish 
forever at death ; that the weak have no guardian, and the 
injured no avenger ; that there is no recompense for sacri- 
fices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is un- 
heard in heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but 
the perpetrator ; that human existence has no purpose, and 
human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this brief life is every 
thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction ; once 
let them thoroughly abandon religion ; and who can conceive 
or describe the extent of the desolation which would fol- 
low ! 

We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympa- 
thy would hold society together. As reasonably might we 
believe, that, w^ere the sun quenched in the heavens, our 
torches would illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize 
the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken 
respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of 
a day ? And what is he more, if atheism be true ? 

Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, 
and selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. 
Appetite, knowing no restraint, and suffering, having no so- 
lace or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of 
human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked 
and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest 
would supplant every other feeling ; and man would become, 
in fact, what the theory of atheism declares him to be, — 
a companion for brutes. 



LESSON LXXVIII. 

Punishment of a Liar. — Bible. 

Now Na'aman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, 
•vas a great man wdth his master, and honourable ; because 



144 NATIONAL READER. 

by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria : he was 
also a mighty man in valour ; but he was a iep'er. And the 
Syrians had gone out by companies, and had brought away 
captive, out of the land of Israel, a little maid; and she waited 
on Naaman's wife. And she said unto her mistress. Would 
God my lord were with the prophet that is in Samaria! for 
he would recover him of his leprosy. 

And one went in, and told his lord, saying, Thus and thus 
said the maid that is of the land of Israel. And the king 
of Syria said. Go to, go ; and I will send a letter unto the 
king of Israel. And he departed, and took with him ten 
talents of silver, and six thousand pieces of gold, and. ten 
changes of raiment. And he brought the letter to the king 
of Israel, saying. Now, when this letter is come unto thee, 
behold, I have therewith sent Naaman my servant to thee, 
i^at thou mayest recover him of his leprosy. 
; And it came to pass, when the king of Israel had read 
the letter, that he rent his clothes, and said, Am I God, to 
kill and to make alive, that this man doth send unto me to 
recover a man of his leprosy ? Wherefore consider, I pray 
you, and see how he seeketh a quarrel against pe. 

And it was so, when Elisha, the man of God, had heard 
that the king of Israel had rent his clothes, that he sent to 
the king, saying. Wherefore hast thou rent thy clothes ? let 
him come now to me, and he shall know that there is a 
prophet in Israel. So Naaman came, with his horses and 
with his chariot, and stood at the door of the house of 
Elisha. And Elisha sent a messenger unto him, saying. Go 
and wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come 
again to thee, and thou shalt be clean. 

But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said. Be- 
hold, I thought, He will surely come out to me, and stand, 
and call on the name of the Lord his God, and strike his 
hand over the place, and recover the leper. Are not Ab'ana 
and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the wa- 
ters of Israel ? may I not wash in them, and be clean ? So 
he turned, and went away in a rage. 

And his servants came near, and spSike unto him, and 
said, My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great 
thing, wouldest thou not have done it ? how much rather, 
then, when he saith to thee, Wash, and be clean ? Then 
v/ent he down, and dipped himself seven times in Jordan, 
according to the saying of the man of God : and his flesh came 
again li]je unto the flesh of a little child, and he was clean. 

11 



, NATIONAL READER. 145 

And he returned to the man of God, he and all his com- 
i pany, and came and stood before him : and he said, Behold, 
I now I know that there is no God in all the earth but in Is- 
Irael; now therefore, I pray thee, take a blessing of thy 
I servant. But he said, As the Lord liveth, before whom I 
' stand, I will receive none. And he urged him to take it : 
j but he refused. * * * * So he departed from him a 
little way. 

But Gehazi, the servant of Elisha the man of God, said, 
I Behold, my master hath spared Naaman this Syrian, in not 
, receiving at his hands that which he brought ; but, as the 
I Lord liveth, I will run after him, and take somewhat of him. 
i So Gehazi followed after Naaman : and when Naaman 
I saw him running after him, he lighted down from the chariot 
I to meet him, and said. Is all well? And he said. All is 
j well. My master hath sent me, saying. Behold, even now 
! there be come to me from mount Ephraim two young men 
j of the sons of the prophets : give them, I pray thee, a ta- 
' lent of silver, and two changes of garments. 
i And Naaman said. Be content; take two talents. And 
he urged him, and bound two talents of silver in two bags, 
with two changes of garments, and laid them upon two of 
his servants ; and they bare them before him. And whea 
he came to the tower, he took them from their hand, and be- 
stowed them in the house ; and he let the men go, and 
they departed. But he went in, and stood before his master. 
And Elisha said unto him. Whence comest thou, Gehazi ? 
And he said, Thy servant went no whither. And he said 
unto him, Went not my heart with thee, when the man turn- 
ed again from his chariot to meet thee ? Is it a time to re- 
ceive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and 
vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and men-servants, and 
maid-servants ? The leprosy, therefore, of Naaman shall 
cleave unto thee. * * # # ^nj lie went out from 
his presence a%per as white as snow. 



LESSON LXXIX. 
Claims of the Jews. — Noel. 



In very truth, there are claims, which the Jew can urge, in 
which the Gentile cannot share. In advocating the cause 
13 



146 NATIONAL READER. 

6f Israel, I would ask, and strongly too. Is the account of 
justice towards that nation settled ? Is the long arrear of 
Gentile gratitude to that nation discharged ? For to what 
blessing shall we refer, in the long catalogue of our own mer- 
cies, which we have not derived from Israel ? 

Amidst the sorrows and vicissitudes of life, do we find 
daily consolations from God ? Under the terrors of con- 
science, do we behold a peaceful asylum in the Gospel of 
Christ ? By the bed of dying worth, or at the oft-frequent- 
ed grave of departed friendship, do we wipe away our tears 
in the prospect of a sure and certain hope of a resurrection 
to the life eternal ? 

From whence do all these consolations rflow ? They flow 
to us from Judah. Th€ Volume of God was penned by 
Jewish hands ; the Gospel was proclaimed by Jewish lips ; 
yea, that Sacred Victim on the cross, — the world's only 
hope, the sinner's only joy, — wears not even he the lin ea- 
ments of the children of Abraham? And, without the 
blush of self-abasement, can we speculate any longer on 
our indifference to the Jewish cause, and coldly complain, 
ll;at we feel not here that energy of sympathy, which we 
can feel on other appeals to our compassion ? * * * * 

Christians ! at length remove the stigma; repay the debt ; 
redeem the time ; admit the claims of justice ; yield to the 
impulse of gratitude ; feel, toil, supplicate for those, whose 
forefathers felt, and toiled, and prayed for you ! 

Think, I pray you, of all their former grandeur, and con- 
trast it with their present desolation. Such a contrast raises, 
even under ordinary circumstances, a keen emotion in the 
human heart. No sympathy is so strong as that, which is 
drawn forth by fallen gTcatness. The extent of the ruin is 
the very measure of that emotion. Why does the traveller 
fondly linger amidst the scenes of ancient art, or power, or 
influence ? Why, for so many a year, has the poet and the 
philosopher v/andered amidst the fragments ol^ Athens or of 
Rome ? why paused, with strange and kindling feelings, 
amidst their broken columns, their mouldering temples, 
their deserted plains ? It is because their day of glory i=; 
passed; it is because their name is obscured, their power 
is departed, their influence is lost ! The gloomy contrast 
casts a shade over the reno^vn and the destiny of man. 

Similar emotions have, indeed, been often felt amidst tli'i 
scenes of Jewish fame. The forsaken banks of Jordan, 
where the Psalmist once might tune his lyre, and utter his 



NATIONAL READER. ' 147 

prophetic songs ; the blighted plains of Galilee, where the 
Saviour might often bend his lonely steps to cheer the wi- 
dow's dwelling ; the ruined city, once the terror of surround- 
ing nations ; the forgotten temple, whose walls once echoed 
back the accents of that voice, " which spoke as never man 
?pake ;" — these images and memorials of former days have 
often produced a solemn sadness in the minds of those, who 
have visited the shores of Palestine ; and these feelings have 
responded to the affecting complaint, " Thy holy cities are 
a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem is a desola- 
tion. Our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers 
praised thee, is burned up vs ilh fire, and all our pleasant 
things are laid waste.''' 

But is there no emphasis of sadness to be found in the 
sordid and degraded state of those, who wander through the 
world forgotten and forlorn, though once the honoured ser- 
vants, the favoured children, of the Lord ? 

Shall the sculptured stone, the broken shaft, the time- 
worn capital, even the poor fragments of some profane 
sanctuary — shall these atfect so deeply the heart ? and shall 
the moral ruin, the spiritual decay, the -symptoms of eternal 
perdition — shall these vestiges of desolation excite no feel- 
ing in our bosoms ? And where is a ruin to be found so 
mournful, and so complete, as that which the moral aspect of 
Judah now presents to our view ? 



LESSON LXXX. 



The Influence of Devotlanal Habits and FeelingSj happy at 
all Times. — Wellbeloved. 

Ln every age, and in every condition of life, the influence 
of devotion is highly needful and important. The adoration 
of the great Source of all enjoyment, by whose providence 
all exist, and from whose goodness all deiivethe comfort of 
their existence, is an employment worthy of the human 
faculties, reasonable in itself, and productive of the most 
excellent dispositions. 

In the day of prosperity, what more natural or becoming, 
than the language of praise at the throne^ of Qpd ? in the 
bmir of adversity, what more suitable or consoling, than the 
e3q)ression of confidence in the divine government, and the 



14S NATIONAL READER. 

wish that devdtion breathes, " Father, not my will, but thine,, 
be doner" in the whole conduct of lile, in all the events of 
this CTer-varying scene, %vhat more likely to keep the mind 
in a calm and tranquil state, or to render the present moral 
discipline efficacious in preparing us for future emineirce and 
s^lory, than the habit of devout intercourse with the great 
Father of our spirits ? 

A practice so excellent in maturer life, is recommended 
io youth by reasons peculiarly forcible. Piety, a crown of 
glory to the hoary head, is an ornament of peculiar beauty 
upon that which has not seen many years. It is the lan- 
guage of the most absurd and fatal folly, that religion and 
its duties are not suited to the innocent gayety of youth ; 
that devotion belongs to those only, who have passed that 
period ; and that it will be sufficient to think of prepar- 
ing for a future state, when we begin to lose our relish for 
the present. 

Such sentiments as these are not, I hope, adopted by any 
of those young persons, to whom I address myself. The 
reverse are suck as they ought to maintain ; such as, alone, 
are worthy t)f a rational mind. Is it reasonable, my young 
friends, that, living as you do upon the bounty of Provi^ 
dence, you should feel no gratitude, nor express any thank- 
fulness for its bounties ? that, dependant as you are upon God 
jfbr life, and health, and all things, you should live without 
any regard for your unceasing Benefactor, and think your- 
selves improperly employed when celebrating his praise ? 

Are the blessings you receive undeserving of your thanks ?• 
Are you insensible of the value of kind relations, judicious 
friends, and wise instructers ; of bodily strength and activity ; 
of cheerfulness of mind ; of all the numberless means, by 
which life is not only supported, but rendered happy ? Is 
it possible that you should not see and feel the ingratitude 
of employing your best days, and your most vigorous pow- 
ers, without one thought of God ; and*'of contenting your- 
selves with the resolution of devoting to his service the im- 
becility of old age? 

With so many monuments of death around you ; with so 
many awful warnings of the uncertainty of life, even at 
your period of it ; is it not the height of presumption and 
folly, to defer the formation of a religious and devotional 
;temper to a period, which, it is probable, or at least possible, 
may never arrive ? ^, 

Have you seen so littMlftf 4ife, as not to know, that the 



NATIONAL READER. 149 

feeling and conduct of matnrer years, and of old age, are al- 
most invariably marked by the character which distinguished 
the youth ; that the man, who neglected God and religious 
duties when young, becomes more averse from them as he 
advances in life, and leaves the world with the same irreli- 
gious temper with which he entered upon it ; unimproved 
by the events that have happened to him, bearing no si- 
militude to God, without the favour of his friendship, and 
unprepared for the joys of his presence ? Or, is this the en- 
vied character you desire to form ? is this the happy end to 
which you aspire ? is such the life you wish to lead ? or such 
the death you hope to die ? 
My young friends, let not any evil suggestions enslave 
you, and prevent you from pursuing that conduct, which rea- 
son and Scripture pronounce to be honourable and safe. If 
it be an awful thing to die without hope of future happiness, 
it is an awful thing to live every moment liable to death, 
without those dispositions, which, by the wise appointment 
of Almighty God, are necessary to obtain the blessedness 
of the world to come. 



LESSON LXXXI. 

The Seasons. — Mrs. Barbauld. 

Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid, 
In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed ? 
Her head is with a flowery garland crowned, / 

And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around. 
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow ; 
Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow ; 
At sight of her the lambkins bound along. 
And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song ; 
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled, 
And all prepare their mossy nests to build. . 
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
The name and lineage of this smiling fair. 

Who from the south is this, with lingering tr^ad 
Advancing, in transparent garments clad ? 
Her breath is hot and sultry : now she loves 
To seek the inmost shelter of the groves ; 
The crystal brooks she seeks,'and limpid streams, 
To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs. 
13* 



15d NATIONAL READER. 

T'rom her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly ; 

At her approach their currents quickly dry. 

Berries and every acid fruit she sips, 

To allay the fervour of her parching lips ; 

Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice, 

She loves, which orchards plenteously produce. 

The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears 

The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears. 

At her approach, be it mine to lie 

Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ; 

Or with her let me rove at early morn. 

When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn ; 

Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose, ^^ \| 

And the bright star of evening mildly glows. 

Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare • ' 

The name and lineage of this blooming fair. 

Who may he be that next, with sober pace, 
Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is hi« face ; 
The grape's red blood distains his robes around ; 
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound ; 
His hair hath just begun to fall away. 
The auburn blending with the mournful gray. 
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain ; 
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train : 
The gun is heard ; the trembling partridge bleeds ; 
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. 
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare, 
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair. 

Who is he from the north that speeds his way r 
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array : 
His cloak is closely folded ; bald his head ; 
His beard of clear sharp icicles is made. 
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; 
With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skim^. 
When he is by, with breath so piercing cold, 
No floweret dares its tender buds unfold. 
Nought can his powerful freezing touch "withstand ; 
And, should he smite you with his chilling hand. 
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast. 
Or stand, like marble, pale and breathless as he passed. 
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear ? 
Fast he approaches, and will soon be here. 
jDeclare, I pray you, tell me, if ye can. 
The name and lineage of this aged man. 



NATIONAL READER. 151 

LESSON LXXXIL 
March, — Bryant. 

The stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: 

I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies. 

Ah ! passing few are they who speak, 
Wild, .stormy month, in praise of thee; 

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou to northern lands again, 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train. 
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day. 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

And the full springs, from frost set free, 

That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
Are just set out to meet the sea. 

The year's departing beauty hides 

Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 
But, in thy sternest frown, abides 

A look of kindly promise yet. 

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 



f52 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LXXXIIL 
April. — Longfellow. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well. 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-in of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould ^ 

The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
Are glancing in the golden sun, along 

The forest openings. 

And when bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the day is gone, 
In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far. 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April, many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



NATIONAL READER. ISS 

LESSON LXXXIV. 

Mayi — J. G. Percival. 

I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds, that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 

From hjs blue throne of air. 
And where his whispering voice in music falls. 
Beauty is budding there; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their skmbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls aloAg the plain, 

And the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 
A canopy of leaves ; 
And, from its darkening shadow, floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; 

The tresses of the woods. 
With the light dallying of the west- wind play j 
And the full-brimming floods. 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 



LESSON LXXXV. 

! The Voice of Spring. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

I 

i I COME, I come f — ye have called me long, — 

I I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 

! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 

. By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 



154 NATIONAL READER. 

By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers, 
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb .' 

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth. 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free. 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my step has been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky. 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows. 
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 

Come forth, ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye. 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly. 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay : 
Come forth 16 the sunshine : I may not stay ! 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 



NATIONAL READER. 155 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ; 

A shade of earth has been round you cast ! 

There is that come over your brow and eye 

Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 

Ye smile ! — but your smile hath a dimness yet — 

« — Oh ! what have ye looked on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay. 

There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

— Are they gone ? — ^is their mirth from the green hills passed ? 

— Ye have looked on Death since ye met me last ! 

1 know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now : 
Ye have strown the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace ; 
She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race ! 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair ; ' 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
— But I know of a world where there falls no blight : 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light !— ' 
Where Death, midst the blooms of the morn, may dwell, 
I tarry no longer : — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is hastening, on soft wdnds borne : 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore : ^^ 

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. 

I go where the loved, who have left you, dwell, 

And the flowers are not Death's :— fare ye well, farewelll- 



156 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON LXXXVL 

Folly of deferring^ to a Future Time, the religious Duties of 
the Present. — Wellbeloved. 

There are few young persons so careless and indifferent, 
as not occasionally to look forward to tlie time when they 
shall become devout. However they may neglect God, and 
disregard the duties of religion at present, they hope to 
serve and obey God, and to live virtuously, before they die. 

Alas ! they reflect not, that, by a continuance in evil prac- 
tices, they render it almost impossible that they should attain 
to any love of virtue ; that, by forming habits inconsistent 
with piety, in the early period of their lives, they expose 
themselves to the almost certain hazard of never acquiring 
one pious sentiment, how protracted soever their existence 
in the present world. 

Be careful, I entreat you, my young friends, not to indulge 
such fallacious hopes. To whatever you now devote yourselves, 
to that you will, most probably, continue to adhere to the last 
hour. Your future pursuits may be in some respects altered, 
but they will never be totally changed. A vicious youth 
almost invariably becomes a vicious man ; and they whose 
declining years are dignified by virtue and piety, are, for 
the most part, those who sought wisdom early and found her. 

We are the creatures of habit ; and, if we wish to be found, 
in old age, proceeding in the paths of wisdom and virtue, 
we must yield ourselves to the counsels of religion in the 
days of our youth. It is both the safest and the easiest 
way to form no habits which you propose hereafter to break ; 
to cherish no dispositions which you hope, when time has 
confirmed them, to relinquish ; to gain a fondness for no 
practices which you know will, if not abandoned, disqualify 
you for the happiness of a future state. 

If you cannot resolve to be pious now, how can you hope 
for the resolution hereafter ? If passion exerts so strong an 
influence at jjfesent, how can you expect that long indulgence 
will lessen its power ? If you neglect to form habits of vir- 
tue, when every thing invites and assists you in this impor- 
tant work, bow can you trust to that period, when, to the 
labour and difficulty of acquiring new principles, will be ad- 
ded that of undoing all that the former years of your livesr 
bave effected ? 



NATIONAL READER. 1517 

A moment's reflection will show you, that the attainment 
of pious affections in old age, after a long pursuit of folly, 
must require nothing less than an entire change of disposi- 
tions and of conduct, a complete regeneration of the mind 
and character. Old things must pass away, and all things 
become new. From reflecting, turn yourselves to ihe expe- 
rience of mankind, and observe how few are capable of the 
exertion so necessary in this momentous concern. 

" Remember, then, your Creator, in the days of your youth, 
while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, in 
which," disturbed by reflections upon the past, oppressed by 
the consciousness of your inability to relinquish what you 
disapprove, and alarmed at the prospect of futurity, " ye 
shall say, We have no pleasure in them." 

It is an error, too commonly prevalent, that the duties of 
piety are inconsistent with the enjoyment of youth, and that 
they tend to damp, if not extinguish, the vivacity which 
adorns that season of life. You will perhaps be told, that 
devotion is not required in you ; that it will serve only to 
render you gloomy, disqualify you for the society of those 
who are young like yourselves, and render you a fit com- 
panion for those only, who have forgotten the days of for- 
mer years, and have arrived at the verge of the grave. 

Be not influenced by such assertions ; make the experi- 
ment for yourselves ; and, if you do not find that the ways 
of piety are the only ways of pleasantness, and her paths 
the only paths of peace, I ask you not to walk in them : if 
the service of God do not yield you the only rational and 
pure pleasure, I will cease from advising you to avoid the 
debasing slavery of sin. 

That devotion will interfere with the pursuits which young 
persons sometimes follov/, and prohibit the pleasures in 
which they are too frequently seen to indulge, I mil not 
deny. Yes, my young friends, if you will be virtuous and 
devout, you must refrain from all those pleasures which end 
in pain ; you must abandon ail those pursuits which lead to 
disgrace and ruin ; you must apply to other sources of grati- 
fication than those, which, however sweet to the taste, con- 
tain a deadly poison ; you must fly the society of those 
" whose feet go down to death, whose steps take hold on 
hell;" and often send your thoughts to that land of promise, 
where all the wise and virtuous shall enjoy inconceivable 
and uninterrupted happiness. 

Are these requisitions unreasonable ? are these injun-c- 
14 



158 NATIONAL READER. 

tions oppressive ? ^yill these destroy your innocent ga5'ety, 
or render you gloomy and austere ? The most thoughtless 
-and inexperienced will acknowledge, that no joys but such 
as are innocent can be pure and lasting ; and piety requires 
of you no more, than that you indulge not in those that are 
impure and deceitful. 

The peculiar enjoyment of youth arises from innocence, 
inexperience in the vicissitudes and trials of life, and ardent 
hope. Devotion, therefore, will increase your enjoyment, 
instead of lessening it, by rendering you secure against temp- 
tations, assuring you of the favour and friendship of God, 
encouraging you to contemplate, vrith satisfaction and with 
pleasure, whatever his providence shall reserve for you in 
future ; and, above all^ by giving a wider scope for your ex- 
pectations to range in, — by opening before you the eternal 
abodes of the wise and the good. 



LESSON LXXXVIL 
Reliffion the best Preparation for the Duties of Life, — ^Norton. 

The interest which we feel in the young should direct 
our attention to all those means, by which their virtue and 
happiness may be secured, and by which they may be saved, 
as far as possible, from the evils that are in the world. The 
worst sufferings, to which they are exposed, are those which 
may be avoided ; for they are those which we bring upon 
ourselves. 

The best preparation, which we can give them, for meet- 
ing the trials, and performing the duties, of life, is religious 
principle. Through the influence of this only can a cha- 
racter be formed, which will lead one to act, and suffer, and 
resist, wisely and honourably, in every situation. This only 
can deliver man from the power of the world, and secure him 
from becoming the slave of circumstances and accidents. 

The essential truths of religion are those truths, which 
we know concerning God ; and concerning ourselves, con- 
sidered as immortal beings. It is religion which teaches 
us what we are, and on whom we depend ; and which, 
widening immeasurably our sphere of view, discovers to us 
by far the most important of our relations, — those which 
connect us with God, and with eternity. It is little to say 



NATIONAL READER. 159 

that it is the most sublime, it is the most practical, of all 
sciences. * * * * 

The foundation of all true religion is a belief of the exist- 
ence and perfections of God. We must conceive of him, 
and represent him to the young, as the Maker and Preserver 
of all things ; as a being on whom the whole creation is en- 
tirely and continually dependent ; who is every where in- 
visibly present, and knows all our thoughts and actions ; from 
wliom we receive all that we enjoy ; to whom we must 
look for all that we hope ; who is our constant Benefactor, 
our Father in Heaven. 

The feelings toward him, which should be first formed 
and cultivated in the minds of the young, are those of grati- 
tude, love, and reverence. In endeavouring to impress them 
with these sentiments toward God, we ought to take advan- 
tage of those occasions when they are most cheerful and 
satisfied with themselves. It is then that his idea is to be 
presented to their minds. Should they be touched by the 
beauty or sublimity of nature, we may then endeavour to 
give them some just conceptions of that infinite Spirit, whose 
agency is displaying itself on every side, and of whose pre- 
sence all visible forms are the marks and symbols. 

When we teach them something respecting the immensity 
of the universe ; that the portion of this earth with which 
they are acquainted, is only a very small part of an immense 
globe, forever wheeling through void space ; that this globe 
is but an inconsiderable thing, compared with others that 
are known to us ; that the stars of heaven are a multitude 
of suns, which cannot be numbered, placed at distances 
from each other, which cannot be measured ; we may then 
direct their thoughts to that Power, by whom this illimitable 
universe was created, and is kept in motion, and who su- 
perintends all the concerns of every individual in every one 
of these myriads of worlds. 

When we point out to them any of the admirable contri- 
vances of nature, which appear around us in such inex- 
haustible profusion and variety, so that we tread them with- 
out thought under our feet ; when we explain to them, that 
each of the countless insects of a summer's day is a miracle 
of curious mechanism ; we can hardly avoid telling them 
by whose wisdom these contrivances were formed, and by 
whose goodness their benevolent purposes were designed. 

When their hearts are opened by gladness, and their feel- 
ings spread themselves out to find objects to which to cling ; 



160 NATIONAL READER. 

you may then, by a word or two, direct their thoughts to God 
as their Benefactor. When the occasion is of importance 
enough to give propriety to the introduction of religious 
ideas, you may lead them in their sorrows to the consolation 
and hope which a belief in him affords. 
, You may thus do what is in your power to enthrone the 
idea of God in their minds, so that all the thoughts and af- 
fections shall pay homage to it. You may thus do what is 
in your power toward forming that temper of habitual devo- 
tion, to which God is continually revealing himself in hi& 
works, and in hfs providence. You may thus give the first 
impulse to those feelings of love, reverence, and trust, which 
connect a good man so strongly with God, that, if it were 
possible for him to be deprived of the belief of his exist- 
ence, it would be with the same feeling of horror, with 
which he would see the sun darkening and disappearing 
Horn the heavens. 



LESSON LXXXVIIL 



The Young, of every Rank, entitled to Education.' — 
Greenwood. 

The benefits of education should be extended to aJl chit- 
ilren, without exception. They never have been denied to 
those who are born to rank and wealth, or even to a com- 
petency and mediocrity of estate, except till very lately, 
and, in some respects, in the case of the female sex. But, 
even at this enlightened day> it is not entirely a superfluous 
task to vindicate the claims of the oflfspring of the poor, of 
the poorest, of the vilest, to that mental cultivation, which 
it is in the power of every community to bestow. 

That old notion is not yet stowed away among the forgotten 
rubbish of old times, that those, who were born to labour and 
servitude, were born for nothing but labour and servitude, and 
that, the less they knew, the better they would obey, and 
that the only instruction, which was necessary or safe for 
them, was that which would teach them to move, like auto- 
matons, precisely as those above them pulled the strings. 
I say, we still hear this principle asserted, though perhaps 
in more guarded and indefinite language ; and a more sel- 
fish, pernicious, disgraceful principle, in whatever terms it 
may be mufiled up, never insulted human nature, nor degraded 



NATIONAL KEADKR. iBl 

human society. It Is the leading principle of despotism, 
the worst feature of aristocracy, and a profane contradiction 
of that indubitable Word, which has pronounced all men to 
be brethren, and, in every thing which relates to their com- 
mon nature, equal. 

In short, it is only to the domestic animals, to the brutea 
that God has given for our use, that this principle can with 
justice be applied. Their education is not to be carried be- 
yond obedience, because their faculties will not authorize a 
more liberal discipline. We are to feed them well, and use 
them gently, and our duty toward them is performed. But, 
to say that this is the extent of our obligations toward any 
class or description of our fellow beings, is to advance the 
monstrous proposition, that their capacity is as low as their 
circumstantial situation, and their degree among those who 
bear the yoke, and eat the grass of the field. 

But the truth is, that the minds of any one class are as 
improvable as the minds of any other class of men, and may 
therefore be improved in the same way, by the same means, 
and to as good purposes. Once grant that all human beings 
have the same human faculties, and you grant, to all, the 
complete right of the unlimited cultivation of those facul- 
ties. Nor is it at all more rational to suppose, that a judicious 
education of the poor, conducted to any attainable extent, 
will be liable to abuse in their hands, and lead them to for- 
get their station and their duty, than that it will have simi- 
lar effects on those who are nourished on the lap of afflu- 
ence. The experience, that has been collected on this 
point, only strengthens the deductions of analogy, and con- 
firms the important position, which has hitherto gained too 
little practical faith in the world, that, the more a people 
know, the less exposed they are to every description of ex- 
travagance. * * * * 

Wherever there is an unimproved mind, there is an un- 
known amount of lost usefulness and dormant energy. If 
this is so through the negligence or perversity of the indivi- 
dual, with him is the guilt, and with him be the punish- 
ment ; but if it is so through the influence of sentiments 
which are current in society, the fearful responsibility rests 
with those who avow and maintain them. I see not why 
the man who would repress, and who does repress, as far as 
in him lies, the moral and intellectual capabilities of a fel- 
low creature, is not as culpable as if he abused and destroy- 
ed his own. 

14* 



162 NATIONAL READER. 

I have said, that even the children of the vilest and low- 
est portion of the community share in the general right to 
the advantages of education. Their claim possesses a peculiar 
title to our consideration. Some have spoken, as if such 
were beyond or beneath our assistance, and would bring 
contamination from their birth-place. Their lot is in the 
region of irreclaimable wickedness, it is said ; and as their 
parents are, so are they destined to become. 

Destined ! and so they are, if you v/ill not save them. 
They are destined, and forever chained down, to a state of 
moral loathsomeness, in which degradation seems to be 
swallowed with the food, and vice breathed in with the air. 
And shall they stay in such a pit of darkness ? Is not their 
situation the strongest possible appeal, which can be made 
to your pity, and your generosity, and your sense of justice, 
and your love of good ? Does it not call on you, most loud- 
ly and imperatively, to pluck these brands from the burning, 
ere yet they have been scorched too deeply and darkly by 
the flame ? 

Nothing is more probable, than that such children may be 
preserved to virtue by a timely interference; nothing is 
more certain, than that they will be lost, if they remain. I 
know of no case, which promises such ample success and 
reward to the spirited efforts of benevolence, as this. Vice 
may be cut off, in a great measure, of her natural increase, 
by the adoption of her offspring into the family of virtue ; and, 
though it is true, that the empire of guilt receives constant 
emigrations and fresh accessions of strength, from all the re- 
gions of society, yet it is equally as true, that they, whose 
only crime it is that they were born within its con'fines, may 
be snatched away, and taught another allegiance, before they 
have become familiar with its language, its customs, and 
its corruptions, and have vowed a dreadful fidelity to its 
laws. 



LESSON LXXXIX. 



Childhood and Manhood — an Apologue, — Crabbe. 

" Men are but children of a larger growth." 

'TwAs eight o'clock, and near the fire 

My ruddy little boy was seated, 
And with the title of a sire 

My ears expected to be greeted : — 



NATIONAL READER. 16^ 

But vain the thought : by sleep oppressed, 

No father there the child descried j 
His head reclined upon his breast, 

Or, nodding, rolled from side* to side. 

*^ Let this young rogue be sent to bed'* — 

Nought further had I time to say, 
When the poor urchin raised his head 

To beg that he might longer stay. 
Refused, towards rest his steps he bent. 

With tearful eye and aching heart ; 
But claimed his playthings ere he went, 

And took up stairs his horse and cart. 

For new delay, though oft denied, 

He pleaded ; wildly craved the boon : 
Though past his usual hour, he cried 

At being sent away so soon. 
If stem to him, his grief I shared ; 

(Unmoved who hears his offspring weep !) 
Of soothing him I half despaired ; 

But soon his cares were lost in sleep. 

*' Alas ! poor infant !" I exclaimed, 

" Thy father blushes now to scan, 
In all which he so lately blamed, 

The follies and the fears of man. 
The vain regret, the anguish brief, 

Which thou bast known, sent up to bed, 
Portrays of man the idle^rief. 

When doomed to slumber with the dead. 

And more I thought, when, up the stairs. 

With "longing, lingering looks," he crept, 
To mark of man the childish cares. 

His playthings carefully he kept 
Thus mortals, on life's later stage, 

When nature claims their forfeit breath, 
IStill grasp at wealth in pain and age, 

And cling to golden toys in deatii. 

'Tis mom ; and see, my smiling boy 

Awakes to hail returning light, — 
To fearless laughter, — boundless joy, — 

Forgot the tears of yesternight. 



164 NATIONAL READER. 

Thus shall not man forget his wo ? 

Survive of age and death the gloom ? 
Smile at the cares he knew below ? 

And, renovated, burst the tomb ? 

O, my Creator ! when thy vdll 

Shall stretch this frame on earth's cold bed, 
Let that blest hope sustain me still, 

'Till thought, sense, memory — all are fled. 
And, grateful for what thou may'st give, 

No tear shall dim my fading eye. 
That 'twas thy pleasure I should live, 

That 'tis thy mandate bids me die. 



LESSON XC. 
The Skies. — ^Bryant. 



Ay, gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent. 

With that bright vault and sapphire wall, 

Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old. 

And hills, whose ancient sumn^ts freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 

The eagle soars his utmost height ; 

Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns : with thee, on high, 
The storm has made his airy seat : 

Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet : 

Thence .the consuming lightnings break ; 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern 

Earth sends, from all her thousand islesj 
A song at their return : 



NATIONAL READER. 165 

The glory that comes down from thee 
Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 

The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 

The meek moon walks the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies^, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise : — ■ 
I only know how fair they stand 
About my own beloved land. 

And they are fair : a charm is theirs, 

That earth — the proud, green earth — has EOt, 

With all the hues, and forms, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, 

And read of heaven's eternal year. 

Oh ! when, amid the throng of men. 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us, then, 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest ! 



LESSON XCL 

Address to the Stars. — New Monthly Magazine, 

Ye are fair, ye are fair ; and your pensive rays 
Steal down like the light of parted days ; 
But have sin and sorrow ne'er wandered o'er 
The green abodes of each sunny shore ? 
xj„*u no frost been there, and no withering blast, 
cold, o'er the flower and the forest, passed ? 



16^/ NATIONAL READER. 

Does the playful leaf never fall nor fade ? 

The rose ne'er droop in the silent shade ? 

Say, comes there no ciond on your morning beam ? 

On your night of beauty no troubled dream ? 

Have ye no tear the eye to annoy ? 

No grief to shadow its light of joy ? 

No bleeding breasts, that are doomed to part ? 

No blighted bower, and no broken heart ? 

Hath death ne'er saddened your scenes of bloom ? 

Have your suns ne'er shone on the silent tomb ? 

Did their sportive radiance never fall 

On the cypress tree or the ruined wall ? — 

'Twere vain to guess ; for no eye hath seen 

O'er the gulf eternally fixed between. 

We hear not the song of your early hours ; 

We hear not the hymn of your evening bowers. 

The strains that gladden each radiant sphere 

Ne'er poured their sweets on a mortal ear ; 

Though such I could deem, on the evening's sigh, 

The air-harp's unearthly melody ! 

Farewell, farewell ! I* go to nay rest ; 
For the shades are passing into the west, 
And the beacon pales on its lonely height. 
Isles of the blessed, good-night, good-night t 



LESSON XCIL 
Smg of the Stars. — Bryant. 



When the radiant morn of creation broke, 
And the world in the smile of God awoke. 
And the empty realms of darkness and death 
Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, 
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, 
From the void abyss, by myriads came. 
In the joy of youth, as they darted away. 
Through the widening wastes of space to play, 
Their silver voices in chorus rung ; 
And this was the song the bright ones sung : — 

" Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky, — 
The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 



NATIONAL READER. 167 

Each sun, \vitli the worlds that round us roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole, 
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

" For the Source of glory uncovers his face. 
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space j 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. 
Lo, yonder the living splendors play : 
^^^ay, on our joyous path away ! 

' " Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star. 

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 

And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean, 

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, > 

How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews; 
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round ! 

" Away, away ! — in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours, 
In the seas and fountains that shine mth morn, 
See, love is brooding, and life is born, 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 
To weave the dance that measures the years. 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 
To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 
The boundless Wsible smile of Him, 
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim." 



J68 NATIONAL READER, 



LESSON XCIIL 

The Bells of St. Mary^s, Limerick. — London Literary 
Gazette. 

*' Those evening bells — ^those evening bells !" 

Moore's National Melodies. 

There is a delight, which those only can appreciate who 
have felt it, in recalling to one's mind, when cast by fortune 
upon a strange soil and among strangers, the sights and 
sounds which were familiar to one's infant days. It is plea- 
sant, too, though, perhaps, like the praise of one's own friend, 
rather obtrusive^ to snatch those memories from their rest, 
and give them to other ears, — ^to tinge them with an inte- 
rest, and bid them live again. When we perceive, likewise, 
that places and circumstances of real beauty and curiosity 
remain neglected and unknown, for want of " some tongue 
to give their worthiness a voice," there is a gratification 
to our human pride in the effort to procure them, even for a 
space, 

A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time 
And razure of oblivion. 

I shall not, in this letter, as in my last, give any thing 
characteristic — any thing Irish. I will be dull rather than 
descend from the elevation I intend to keep ; but, in com- 
pensation, I will tell you a fine old story; and, if you have 
but the slightest mingling of poetical feeling in your com- 
position, (and who is there now-a-days that will not pretend 
to some ?) I promise myself that you shall not be disap- 
pointed. 

The city of Limerick, though surrounded by some very 
tolerable demesnes,* is sadly deficient in one respect,— 
not an unimportant one in any large town ; — there is no 
public walk of any consequence immediately adjoining it. 
The canal which leads to Dublin is bleak, from its want of 
trees ; and unhealthy, from the low marshy champaign,! 
which lies on either side its banks. * * * * 

But, at the head of this canal, where it divides itself into 
two branches, which, gradually widening and throwing off 
their artificial appearance, form a glittering circlet around a 
small island, which is covered with water shrubs — on this 
spot I have delightedly reposed in many a sweet sunset, — 

* Fron. demains'. t Pron. sham'|)ane. 



NATIONAL READER. 169 

when I loved to seek a glimpse of inspiration in such 
scenes, to imitate Moore's poetry, and throw rhymes to- 
gether, about the rills and hills, streams and beams, and 
even and heaven, and fancy I was a genius ! — " 'Tis gone — 
'tis gone — 'tis gone !" as old Capulet says. 

But let us recall it for a moment. Have the com'plaisance 
to indulge me in a day-dream, and fancy, if you can, that 
you sit beside me on the bank. We are beyond the hearing 
of the turmoil and bustle of the to^vn ; " the city's voice 
itself is soft, like solitude's;" and there is a hush around 
us that is delightful — the beautiful repose of the evening. 
The sun, that, but a few minutes since, rushed down the west 
with the speed of a wandering star, pauses, ere he shall 
set, upon the very verge of the horizon, and smiles upon his 
ow*n handiwork — the creation of his fostering fervour. 

Hark ! one sound alone reaches us here ; and how grand, 
and solemn, and harmonious, in its monotony ! These are 
the great bells of St. Mary's. Their deep-toned vibrations 
undulate so as to produce a sensible effect on the air around 
us. The peculiar fineness of the sound has been often re- 
marked ; but there is an old story connected with their his- 
tory, which, whenever I hear them ring out over the silent 
city, gives a something more than harmony to the peal. I 
shall merely say, that what I am about to relate is told as a 
real occurrence ; and I consider it so touchingly poetical in 
itself, that I shall not dare to supply a fictitious name, and 
fictitious circumstances, where I have been unable to procure 
the actual ones. 

They were originally brought from Italy ; they had been 
manufactured by a young native (whose name the tradition 
has not preserved,) and finished after the toil of many years ; 
and he prided himself upon his work. They were conse- 
quently purchased by the prior of a neighbouring convent ; 
and, with the profits of this sale, the young Italian procured 
a little villa, where he had the pleasure of hearing the toll- 
ing of his bells from the convent cliff, and of growing old ij^ 
the bosom of domestic happiness. 

This, however, was not to continue. In some of those 
broils, whether civil or foreign, which are the undying worm 
in the peace of a fallen land, the good Italian was a sufferer 
amongst many. He lost his all ; and, after the passing of 
the storm, found himself preserved alone amid the wreck 
of fortune, friends, family, and home. The convent, ia 
which the bells, the master-pieces of his skill, were hung, 
15 



170 NATIONAL READER. 

was razed to the earth, and these last carried away into 
another land. 

The unfortunate owner, haunted by his memories, and 
deserted by his hopes, became a wanderer over Europe. 
His hair grew gray, and his heart withered, before he again 
found a home or a friend. In this desolation of spirit, he 
formed a resolution of seeking the place, to which those 
treasures of his memory had been finally borne. He sailed 
for Ireland ; proceeded up the Shannon ; the vessel anchor- 
ed in the Pool, near Limerick, and he hired a small boat for 
the purpose of landing. 

The city was now before him ; and he beheld St. Mary's 
steeple, lifting its turreted head above the smoke and mist 
of the Old Town. He sat in the stern, and looked fondly 
toward it. It was at evening, so calm and beautiful, as to 
remind him of his own native haven in the sweetest time 
of the year — the death of the spring. The broad stream 
appeared like one smooth mirror, and the little vessel glided 
through it with almost a noiseless expedition. 

On a sudden, amid the general stillness, the bells tolled 
from the cathedral ; the rowers rested on their oars, and 
the vessel went for^; ard with the impulse it had received. 
The old Italian looked towards the city, crossed his arms 
on his breast, and lay back in his seat. Home, happiness, 
early recollections, friends, family — all were in the sound, 
and went with it to his heart. When the rowers looked 
round, they beheld him with his face still turned toward the 
cathedral ; but his eyes were closed, and, when they land- 
ed—they found him cold ! 

Such are the associations, which the ringing of St. Mary's 
bells brings to my recollection. I do not know how I can 
better conclude this letter than with the little melody, from 
which I have taken the line above. It is a good specimen 
of the peculiar tingling melody of the author's poetry — a 
quality in which he never has been equalled in his own lan- 
guage, nor exceeded in any other : — Why ! you can almost 
fancy you hear them ringing ! — 

" Those evening- bells — those evening bells — 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth, and home, and native clime, 
When I last heard their soothing chime! 

'' Those pleasant hours have passed away, 
And many a heart, that then was e-ay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 



NATIONAL READER. 171 

" And so 'twill be when I am gone : 
That tuneful peal will still ring- on, 
When other bards shall walk tiiose dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells !" 



LESSON XCIV. 



Description of Jerusalem and the surrounding Country. — 
Letters froji the East. 

Although the size of Jemsalem was not extensive, its 
very situation, on the brink of mgged hiils, encircled by- 
deep aifd v/iid valleys, bounded by eminences whose sides 
were covered with groves and gardens, added to its numer- 
ous towers, and tem^ple, must have given it a singular and 
gloomy magnificence scarcely possessed by any other city 
in the world. 

The most pleasing feature in the scenery around the city 
is the valley of Jehoshaphat. Passing out of the gate of 
St. Stephen, you descend the hill to the torrent of the 
Ked'ron : a bridge leads over its dry and deep bed : it must 
have been a very narrow, though, in winter, a rapid stream. 
On the left is a grotto, handsomely fitted up, and called the 
tomb of the Virgin Mary, though, it is well known, she nei- 
ther died nor was buried near Jerusalem. Being surprised, 
however, on the hills by along and heavy shower of rain, we 
were glad to take shelter beneath the doorway of this grotto. 

A few steps beyond the Kedron, you come to the garden 
of Gethsem'ane, of all gardens the most interesting and 
hallowed ; but how neglected and decayed ! It is surround- 
ed by a kind of low hedge ; but the soil is bare ; no verdure 
grows on it, save six fine venerable olive-trees, which have 
stood here for many centuries. This spot is at the foot of 
Olivet, and is beautifully situated : you look up and down 
the romantic valley ; close behind rises the mountain ; be- 
fore you are the walls of the devoted city. 

While lingering here, at evening, and solitary, — for it is 
not often a footstep passes by, — that night of sorrow and dis- 
may rushes on the imagination, when the Redeemer was 
betrayed, and forsaken by ail, even by the loved disciple. — 
Hence the path winds np the Mount of Olives : it is a beau- 
tiful hill : the words of the Psalmist, ^' the mountains around 
Jerusalem," must not be literally applied, as none are within 



172 NATIONAL READER. 

view, save those of Arabia. It is verdant, and covered, in 
s-ome parts, with olive-trees. From the summit you enjoy 
an admirable view of the city : it is beneath, and very near ; 
and looks, with its valleys around it, exactly like a panora- 
ma.* Its noble temple of Omar, and large area planted with 
palms; its narrow streets, ruinous places, and towers, are all 
laid out before you. 

On the summit are the remains of a church, built by the 
Empress Herena ; and, in a small edifice, containing one 
large and lofty apartment, is shown the print of the last 
footstep of Christ, when he took his leave of earth. The 
fathers should have placed it nearer to Bethany, in order to 
accord with the account given us in Scripture ; but it an- 
swers the purpose of drawing crowds of pilgrims to the 
spot. Descending Olivet to the narrow valley of Jehosha- 
phat, you soon come to the pillar of Absalom : it has a very 
antique| appearance, and is a pleasing object in the valley : 
it is of a yellow stone, adorned with half columns, formed 
into three stages, and terminates in a cupola. 

The tomb of Zacharias, adjoining, is square, with four or 
five pillars, and is cut out of the rock. Near these is a sort 
of grotto, hewn out of an elevated part of the rock, with 
four pillars in front, which is said to have been the apostles' 
prison at the time they were confined by the rulers. The 
small and wretched village of Siloa is built on the rugged 
sides of the hill above ; and just here the valleys of Hinnom | 
and Jehoshaphat meet, at the south-east corner of Mount 
Zion : they are both sprinkled with olive-trees. 

Over the ravinej of Hinnom, and directly opposite the 
city, is the Mount of Judgment, or of Evil Counsel ; because 
there, they say, the rulers took counsel against Christ, and 
the palace of Caiaphas§ stood. It is abroad and barren hill, 
without any of the picturesque || beauty of Olivet, though lof- 
tier. On its side is pointed out the Aceldama,!! or field 
where Judas hung himself : a small and rude edifice stands 
on it, and it is used as a burying-place. 

But the most in'teresting portion of this hill, is where its 
rocks descend precipitously into the valley of Hinnom, and 
are mingled with many a straggling olive-tree. All these 
rocks are hewn into sepulchres of various forms and sizes : 
no doubt they were the tombs of the ancient Jews, and are ^ 
in general cut with considerable care and skill. They are i 
often the resting-place of the benighted passenger. Some ' 

* Prcn. pan-o-ra'-ma — a as in father. f an-teek'. J ra-vren'. 

§ Cay'-a-phas. 1| pic-tshu-resk', ^ A-sel'-da-ma. 



NATIONAL READER. 173 

of them open into inner apartments, and are provided with 
small windows or ap'ertures cut in the rock. 

In these there is none of the darkness or sadness of the 
tomb ; but in many, so elevated and picturesque is the 
situation, a traveller may pass hours, with a book in his hand, 
while valley and hill are beneath and around him. Before 
the door of one large sepulchre stood a tree on the brink 
of the rock ; the sun was going down on Olivet on the right, 
and the resting-place of the dead commanded a sweeter 
scene than any of the abodes of the living. 

Many of the tombs have flights of steps leading up to 
them : it was in one of these that a celebrated traveller 
would fix the site of the holy sepulchre : it is certainly 
more picturesque ; but why more just, is hard to conceive ; 
since the words of Scripture do not fix the identity of 
the sacred tomb to any particular spot, and tradition, on so 
memorable an occasion, could hardly err. The fathers de- 
clare, it long since became absolutely necessary to cover 
the native rock with marble, in order to prevent the pilgrims 
from destroying it, in their zeal to carry off pieces to their 
homes ; and on this point their relation may, one would sup- 
pose, be believed. 

The valley of Hinnom now turns to the west of the city, 
and extends rather beyond the north wall : here the plain 
of Jeremiah commences, and is the best wooded tract in the 
whole neighbourhood. In this direction, but further on, the 
historian of the siege speaks " of a tower, that afforded a 
prospect of Arabia at sunrising, and of the utmost limits of 
the Hebrew possessions at the sea westward." The former 
is still enjoyed from the city ; but the latter could only be 
had at a much greater distance north, where there is no hill 
in front. 

Above half a mile from the wall, are the tombs of the 
kings. In the midst of a hollow, rocky, and adorned with 
a few trees, is the entrance ; you then find a large apart- 
ment, above fifty feet long, at the side of which a low door, 
over which is a beautiful frieze,*^ leads into a seriesf of small 
chambers, in the walls of which are several deep recesses, 
hewn out of the rock, of the size of the human body. There 
are six or seven of these low and dark apartments, one or 
two of which are adorned with vine-leaves and clusters of 
grapes. Many parts of the stone coflins, beautifully orna^ 

* Pron, freeze. f se'-re-€s. 

15* 



i'74 NATIONAL READER. 

mented in the Saracenic manner, are strewed* on the floor : 
it would seem, that some hand of ravage had broken them 
to pieces, with the view of finding something valuable with- 
in. The sepulchres of the judges, so called, are situated in 
a wild spot about two miles from the city. They bear much ' 
resemblance to those of the kings, but are not so handsome . 
or spacious. 

Returning to the foot of the Mount of Olives, you pro- 
ceed up the vale of Jehoshaphat on a line with the plain : 
it widens as you advance, and is more thickly sprinkled with 
olives. When arrived at the hill in which it terminates, 
the appearance of the city and its en'virons is rich and magni- i 
ficent ; and you cannot help thinking, that, were an English f\ 
party suddenly transported here, they would not believe *J 
it was the sad and dreary Jerusalem they were gazing on. ' 

This is the finest point to view it from ; for its numerous i 
min^arets and superb mosque are seen to great advantage ' 
over the trees of the plain and valley, and the foreground is 
verdant and cultivated. One or two houses of the Turks | 
stood in this spot, and we had trespassed on the rude gar- 
den of one of them, where the shade of a spreading tree 
invited us to linger over the prospect. For some days there 
had been heavy falls of rain, yet the bed of the Kedron was 
still dry, and has been so, most probably, for many centuries. 

The climate of the city and country is in general very f 
healthy. The elevated position of the former, and the nu- 
merous hills which cover the greater part of Palestine, must 
conduce greatly to the purity of the air. One seldom sees 
a country overrun with hills in the manner this is : in gene- 
ral they are not in ranges, but more or less is'olated, and of 
a picturesque form. Few of them approach to the charac- 
ter of mountains, save Carmel, the Quaranti'na, the shores 
of the lakes, and those which bound the valley of the Jordan, 

To account for the existence of so large a population in 
the promised lands, the numerous hills must have been en- 
tirely cultivated : at present, their appearance, on the sides 
and summits, is, for the most part, bare and rocky. In old 
time, they were probably formed into terraces, as is now 
seen on the few cultivated ones, where the vine, olive, and 
fig-tree flourish. 

On a delightful evening, we rode to the wilderness of St. 
John. The mon'astery of that name stands at the entrance : 
it is a good and soacious building, and its terrace enjoys a 

* Pron. strowed. 



NATIONAL READER. IIH 

fin^^prospect, in which is the lofty hill of Modin, with the 
ruins of the palace of the Maccabees on its summit. A 
small village adjoins the convent, in which are shown the 
remains of the house of Elizabeth, where the meeting with 
Mary took place. But few monks reside in the convent, 

which affords excellent accommodations for a traveller. 

# * * # 

In the church, a rich altar is erected on the spot where 
St. John was born, with an inscription over it. The next 
morning we visited the wilderness : it is narrow, partially 
cultivated, and sprinkled with trees ; the hills rise rather 
steep on each side ; from that on the right, a small stream 
jflows into the ravine beiow. The whole appearance of the 
place is romantic ; and the prophet might have resided here, 
while exercising his ministry, with very little hardship. The 
neighbourhood still, no doubt, produces excellent honey, 
which is to be had throughout Palestine. 
. High up the rocky side of the hill on the left, amidst a 
profusion of trees, is the cave or grotto of St. John. A 
fountain gushes out close by. When we talk of wilder- 
nesses, mountains, and plains, in Palestine, it is to be un- 
derstood, that they seldom answer to the size of the same 
objects in more extensive countries ; that they sometimes 
present but a beautiful miniature of them. It certainly de- 
served the term, given by the Psalmist to the city, of be- 
ing a " compact" country. 

The Baptist, in his wild garb, surrounded by an assem- 
blage of various characters, warning them to repentance, in 
this wild spot, must have presented a fine subject for the 
painter. In wandering over the country, we feel persuad- 
ed, that its very scenery lent wings to the poetical and figu- 
rative discourses of its prophets and seers. Sublime and 
diversified, it is yet so confined and minute as to admit the 
4€epest seclusion in the midst of a numerous population. 

The monks in the convent are of the Catholic order, and 
have the advantage of all their brethren in point of situation^ 
and comfort ; and yet nothing will induce these Franciscans 
to keep their habitations clean : the Greek and Armenian 
monasteries are palaces compared to them. The fathers are, 
in general, a very ignorant race of men, chiefly from the low- 
est orders of society. Their tables, except during lent, are 
spread plentifully, twice a day, with several dishes of meat 
and wine; and so well do many of them thrive, that they 
would consider it banishment to be sent home to' E\3Xope 
to their friends. 



176 NATIONAL READER. 

From the east end of the wilderness, you enter the 
famous valley of Elah, where Goli'ah was slain by the 
champion of Israel. It is a pretty and interesting spot; 
the bottom covered with olive-trees. Its present appearance 
answers exactly to the description given in Scripture ; the 
two hills, on which the armies stood, entirely confining it on 
the right and left. The valley is not above half a mile 
broad. Tradition was not required to identify this spot : 
nature has stamped it with everlasting features of truth. 
The brook still flows through it in a \\inding course, from 
which David took the smooth stones; the hills are not 
precipitous, but slope gradually down ; and the vale is vari- 
ed with banks and undulations, and not a single habitation 
is visible in it. * * * * 



LESSON XCV. 

TJit same, concluded. 



At the south-east of Zion, in the vale of Jehoshaphat, they 
say the gardens of Solomon stood, and also on the sides of the 
hiil adjoining that of Olivet. It was not a bad, though rather 
a confined, site for them. The valley here is covered with a 
rich verdure, divided by hedges into a number of small gar- 
dens. A mean looking village stands on the rocky side of 
the hill above. Not a single palm-tree is to be seen in the 
whole territory around, where once every eminence was co- 
vered with them. 

The roads leading to the city are bad, except to the north, 
being the route to Damascus ; but the supplies of wood, 
and other articles for building the temple, must have come 
by another way than the near and direct one from Jaffa, 
which is impassable for burthens of a large size, from the 
defiles and rocks amidst which it is carried ; the circuitous 
routes by land from Tyre or Acre were probably used. The 
Turk, who is chief of the guard that keeps watch at the en- 
trance of the sacred church, waited on us two or three times ; 
he is a very fine and dignified looking man, and ensured us 
entrance at all hours, which permission we availed ourselves 
of, to pass another night amidst its hallowed scenes, with 
interest and pleasure but little diminished. 

We chose a delightful morning for a walk to Bethany. 



NATIONAL READER. 177 

The path leads up the side of Olivet, by the very way which 
oar Saviour is said to have descended in his last entry into 
Jerusalem. At a short distance are the ruins of the village 
tpf Bethphage ; and, half a mile further, is Bethany. The 
distance is about two miles from the city. The village is 
beautifully situated ; and the ruins of the house of Lazarus 
are still shown, and do credit to the good father's taste. 

On the right of the road is the tomb of Lazarus, cut out 
of the rock. Carrying candles, we descended ten or twelve 
stone steps to the bottom of the cave : in the middle of the 
floor is the tomb, a fevv feet deep, and large enough to ad- 
mit one body only. Several persons can stand conveniently 
in the cave around the tomb, so that Lazarus, when restored, 
did not, as some suppose, descend from a sepulchre cut out 
of the wall, but rose out of the grave, hewn in the floor of 
the grotto. 

The light that enters from above does not find its way to 
the bottom ; the fine painting in the liouvre, of this resur- 
rection, was probably faithful in representing it by torch- 
light. Its identity cannot be doubted : the position of 
Bethany could never have been forgotten, and this is tlie 
only sepulchre in the whole neighbourhood. It is a delight- 
ful Sunday afternoon's walk to Bethany : after crossing the 
mounts, the patli passes along tlie side of a hill, that looks 
down into a wild and long valley, in which are a few scat- 
tered cottages. The view, just above the village, is very 
magnificent, as it embraces the Dead Sea, the valley and 
river of the Jordan, and its confluence with the lake. 

On the descent of Olivet is shown the spot where Christ 
wept over Jerusalem : tradition could not have selected a 
more suitable spot. Up this ascent David went, when he 
fled from Absalom, weeping. And, did a Jew wish to breathe 
his last where the glory of his land and fallen city should 
meet his departing gaze, he would desire to be laid on the 
summit of the Mount of Olives. 

The condition of the Jews in Palestine is more insecure, 
and exposed to insult and exaction, than in Egypt and Syria, 
from the frequent lawless and oppressive conduct of the 
governors and chiefs. These distant pachalics* are less 
under the control of the Portef ; and, in Eg}T)t, the subjects 
of Mahmoud enjoy a more equitable and quiet government 
than in any other part of the empire. There is little na- 

* Pron. pa'-shaw-Hos. t The Ottoman government-. 



178 NATIONAL READER. 

tional feeling or enthusiasm among them ; though there are 
some exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. 
In the city, they appear fearful and humbled ; for the con- 
tempt in which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and 
they often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion. 

Yet it is an interesting sight, to meet with a Jew, wan- 
dering, with his staff in his hand, and a venerable beard 
sweeping his bo^om, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, 
on the sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the 
ancient river Kish'on, M^here the arm of the mighty was 
withered in the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love 
of his country warm his heart, his feelings must be exquisite : 
—but his spirit is suited to his condition. 



LESSON XCVL 



'■^ that ye, through his poverty , might be rich.^"^- 
Christian Examiner. 

Low in the dim and sultry west 
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky ; 

The evening's grateful hour of rest, 
Its hour of feast and joy, ^s nigh. 

But he, with thirst and hunger spent, 
Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks ; 

A lowly hand the cup hath lent. 

And from the humble well he drinks. 



On the dark wave of Galilee 

The gloom of twilight gathers fast, 

And o'er the waters drearily 
Sweeps the bleak evening blast. 

The weary bird hath left the air. 
And sunk into his sheltered rest ; 

The wandering beast hath sought his lair, 
And laid him down to welcome rest. 

Still, near the lake, with weary tread, 
Lingers a form of human kind ; 



NATIONAL READER. 1T9 

And, from his lone, unsheltered head, 
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind. 

Why seeks not he a home of rest ? 

Why seeks not he the pillowed bed ? 
Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest ; — 

He hath not where to lay his head ! 

Such was the lot he freely chose, 

To bless, to save, the human race ; 
And, through his poverty, there flows 

A rich, full stream of heavenly grace. 



LESSON XCVIL 

- Elijah fed by Ravens, — Grahame. 

Sore was the famine throughout all the bounds 
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command 
Of God, toiled on to Cherith's failing brook. 
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn. 
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale. 
The withering herbage dies. Among the palms. 
The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale 
An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay 
Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard 
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around, 
And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head 
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps, 
Nor wakes till daw ning. Then, with hands enclasped, 
And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prays 
To Him who manna on the desert showered, 
To Him who from th? rock made fountains gush. 
Entranced the man of God remains ; till, roused 
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart 
He sees the ravens fearless by his side 
Alight, and leave the heaven^rovided food. 



180 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON xcvin. 

Mount Sinai. — Letters from the East. 

Leaving the valley of Paran, the path led over a rocky- 
wilderness, to render which more gloomy, the sky became 
clouded, and a shower of rain fell. By moonlight we 
ascended the hills, and, after some hours' progress, rested 
for the night on the sand. The dew^s had fallen heavy for 
some nights, and the clothes that covered us were quite wet 
in the morning ; but, as we advanced, the dews ceased. 

Our mode of life, though irregular, was quite to a wan- 
derer's taste. We sometimes stopped for an hour, at mid- 
day, or, more frequently, took some bread and a draught of 
water on the camel's back ; but we were repaid for our fa- 
tigues, when we halted for the evening, as the sun was sinking 
in the desert, and, having taken our supper, strolled amidst 
the solitudes, or spent the hours in conversation till dark. 

But the bivouac* by night was the most striking, when, 
arriving, fatigued, long after dark, the two fires were lighted. 
I have frequently retired to some distance to gaze at the 
group of Arabs round theirs, it was so entirely in keeping. 
They were sipping their coffee, and talking with expressive 
action and infinite vivacity ; and, as they addressed each other, 
they often bent over the flame which glanced on their white 
turbans and drapery and dark countenances, and the cam- 
els stood behind, and stretched their long necks over their 
masters. 

Having finished our repast, we wrapped ourselv^es in our 
cloaks, and lay down round the fire : and let not that couch 
be pitied ; for it was delightful, as well as romantic, to sink 
to rest as you looked on that calm and glorious sky, the stars 
shining with a brilliancy you have no conception of in our 
climate. Then, in the morning, we were suddenly summon- 
ed to depart, and, the camels being loaded, we were sog:i on 
the march. Jouma frequently chanted his melancholy Arab 
song, for at this time we were seldom disposed to converse, 
and were frequently obliged to throw a blanket over our 
cloak, and walk for some hours, to guard against the chil- 
li ess of the air. 

The sunsets in Egypt are the finest ; but to see a sunrise in 
its glory, you must be in the desert : nothing there obscures 
or obstructs it. You are travelling on, chill and silent, 
* Pron. be-voo-ac ; an encampment for a night. 



NATIONAL READER. 181 

your looks bent toward the east ; a variety of glowing hues 
appearand die away again ; and, for some time, the sky is blue 
and clear ; when the sun suddenly darts above the horizon, 
and such a splendour is thrown instantly on the wide ex- 
panse of sand and rocks, that, if you were a Persian adorer, 
you would certainly break out, like the muezzin* from the mi- 
naret, in praise and blessing. 

The way now became very interesting, and varied by 
several narrow, deep valleys, w^here a few stunted palms 
grew. The next morning, we entered a noble desert, lined 
on each side by lofty mountains of rock, many of them per- 
fectly black, with sharp and ragged summits. In the midst 
of the plain, which rose with a continual yet gentle ascent, 
were isolated rocks of various forms and colours, and 
over its surface were scattered a number of shrubs of a 
lively green. Through all the route, we had met few pas- 
sengers. One or two little caravans, or a lonely w^anderer 
with his camel, had passed at times, and given us the usual 
salute of " Peace be unto you." * * * # 

A few hours more we got sight of the mountains round 
Sinai. Their appearance was magnificent ; when we drew 
nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was in- 
finitely striking, and, on the right, extended a vast range of 
mountains as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity 
of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of 
grand and singular form. We had hoped to reach the con- 
vent by day-light, but the moon had risen some time, when 
we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conduc- 
tors advised us to dismount. 

A gentle yet perpetual ascent, led on, mile after mile, up 
this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever va- 
rying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and 
the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. The 
road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, and 
amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It was 
a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, 
probably by the Arabs ; and the moonlight was of little ser- 
vice to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frown- 
ing summits above. 

Where is Mount Sinai ? was the inquiry of every one. 
The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of 

*3h/^zzin, — one of a religioas order, amonj^ the Mohammedans, whose clear 
and sonorous voice, from the minaret, or steeple of a m.osque, answers tlie purpose 
of a bell, among Christians, to call the people to morning and evenlr.g prayers. 
16 



182 NATIONAL READER. 

Moses, as it is called, but we could not distinguish it. Again, 
and again, point after point was turned, and we saw but tiie 
same stern scenery. But what had the softness and beauty 
of nature to do here ? Mount Sinai required an approach 
like this, where all seemed to proclaim the land of miracles, 
and to have been visited by the terrors of the Lord. 

The scenes, as you gazed around, had an unearthly cha- 
racter, suited to the sound of the fearful trumpet that was 
once heard there. We entered at last on the more open 
valley, about half a mile wide, and drew near this famous 
mountain. Sinai is not so lofty as some of the mountains 
around it, and in its form there is nothing graceful or pecu- 
liar, to distinguish it from others. * * * * 

On the third morning we set out early from the convent 
for the summit of Mount Sinai, with two Arab guides. The 
ascent was, for some time, over long and broken flights of 
stone steps, placed there by the Greeks. The path was 
often narrow and steep, and wound through lofty masses of 
rock on each side. In about half an hour, we came to a 
well of excellent water ; a short distance above which is a 
small, ruined chapel. 

About half way up was a verdant and pleasant spot, in 
the midst of which stood a high and solitary palm, and the 
rocks rose in a small and wild amphitheatre around. We 
were not very long now in reaching the summit, which is 
of limited extent, having two small buildings on it, used 
formerly by the Greek pilgrims, probably for worship. 

But Sinai has four summits ; and that of Moses stands 
almost in the middle of the others, and is not visible from 
below, so that the spot where he received the law must 
have been hid from the view of the multitudes around ; and 
the smoke and flame, which. Scripture says, enveloped the 
entire Mount of Sinai, must have had the more awful ap- 
pearance, by reason of its many summits and great extent ; 
and the account delivered gives us reason to imagine, the 
summit or scene where God appeared was shrouded from 
the hosts around. 

But what occasions no small surprise at first, is the scar- 
city of plains, valleys, or open places, where the children 
of Israel could have stood conveniently to behold the glory 
on the mount. From the summit of Sinai you see only 
innumerable ranges of rocky mountains. One generally 
places, in imagination, around Sinai, extensive plains, or sandy 
deserts, where the camp of the bests was placed, where the 



NATIONAL READER. 183 

families of Israel stood at the doors of their tents, and the 
line was drawn round the mountain, which no one might 
break through on pain of death. 

But it is not thus : save the valley by which we approach- 
ed Sinai, about half a mile wide, and a few miles in length, 
and a small plain we afterwards passed through, with a rocky 
hill in the middle, there appear to be few open places around 
the mount. We did not, however, examine it on all sides. 
On putting the question to the superior of the convent, 
where he imagined the Israelites stood ; " Every where," he 
replied, waving his hands about — " in the ravines, the val- 
leys, as well as the plains." 

Having spent an hour here, we descended to the place of 
verdure, and, after resting awhile, took our road, with one of 
the guides, towards the mountain of St. Catharine. The 
rapture of Mr. Wolf's feelings on the top of Sinai was in- 
describable; I expected to see bira take flight for a better 
region. B^ing the son of a rabbi at Munich, the conviction 
of being on the scene where God visited his people, and con- 
ferred such glory on them, was almost too much for him. 

After ascending again, in another direction, we came 
to a long and steep descent, that commanded a very no» 
ble scene, and reached, at last, a little valley at the bottom, 
that was to be our resting-place for the night. The moun- 
tains rose around this valley in vast precipices : a line of 
beautiful verdure ran along its whole extent, in the midst of 
which stood a deserted mon'astery. The fathers had long 
been driven from it by the Arabs, but its various apartments 
v/ere still entire, and afforded an excellent asylum for a tra- 
veller. 

This deep solitude had an exceeding and awful beauty : 
the palms, the loftiest I ever saw, rose moveless, and the 
garden and grove were desolate and neglected ; the fountain 
in the latter was now useless, and the channel of the rivulet 
that ran through the valley was quite dry ; the walls w^ers 
in ruins, and the olive, the poplar, and other trees, grew in 
wiM luxuriance. 

Within, some old books of devotion were yet left behind. 
Haying chosen an apartment in the upper story, which open- 
ed into the corridor, and had been one of the cells of the 
exiled fathers, we took possession of it at night, kindkd a 
fire on a large stone in a corner, and made a good supper of 
the rude provisions we had. There needed no spirit of rd- 
mance in order to enjoy the situation exquisitely : few ideal 



184 NATIONAL READER. 

pictures ever equalled the strangeness and savageness of this 
forsaken sanctuary in the retreats of Sinai. 



LESSON XCIX. 
The Summit oj Mount Sinai. — ^JMgntgomery, 

I SEEK the mountain cleft : alone 
I seem in this sequestered place : — 

Not so : I meet, unseen, yet known, 
My Maker, face to face. 

My heart perceives his presence nigh, 
And hears his voice proclaim, 

While bright his glory passes by, 
His noblest name. A 

Love is that name — ^for " God is Love.'* 
Here, where, unbuilt by mortal hands — 

Mountains below, and heaven above — 
His awful temple stands, 

I worship. — ^Lord, though I am dust 
And ashes in thy sight, 

Be thou my strength ; — ^in thee I trust ;— 
Be thou my light. 

Hither, of old, the Almighty came : 

Clouds were his car, his steeds the wind ; 

Before him went devouring flame, 
And thunder rolled behind. 

At his approach the mountains reeled, 
Like vessels, to and fro ; 

Earth, heaving like a sea, revealed 
The gulfs below. 

Borne through the wilderness in wrath, 
He seemed, in power alone, a God : 

But blessings followed in his path, 
For Mercy seized his rod. 

He smote the rock, and, as he passed, 
Forth gushed a living stream ; 

The fire, the earthquake, and the blast, 
Fled as a dream. 



NATIONAL READER. l66 



LESSON C. 



Religious Education indispensable to individual Happiness^ anB. 
to national Prosperity. — Greenwood. 

Religion is the only sure foundation of virtue; and what is 
any human being, young or old, rich or poor, without virtue ^ 
He cannot be trusted, he cannot be respected, confided in, 
or loved. Religion is the only sure index of duty ; and how 
can any one pursue an even, or a reputable course, without 
rules and without principles ? Religion is the only guide 
to true happiness ; and who is there so hardy as to assume 
the tremendous responsibility of withholding those instruc- 
tions and consolations, which dispel doubt, soothe affliction, 
make the bed of sickness, spread the dying pillow, and open 
the gates of an effulgent futurity ? 

Let, then, religion be the primary object in the educatioa 
of the young. Let it mingle, naturally, easily, and graceful- 
ly, in all their pursuits and acquirements. Let it be rendered 
intelligible, attractive, and practical. Let it win their affec- 
tions, command their reverence, and ensure their obedience. 
Children, of any class whatever, may be taught in a great 
compass and liberality of knowledge, not only without ap- 
prehension, but with assiduity and encouragement ; but let 
them, above all things, be "taught of the Lord." 

And what folio w^s ? When all thy children shall be taught 
of the Lord, v/hat is the promise, the reward, and the con- 
summation ? "Great shall be the peace of thy children." 
All the blessings, signified by that word peace^ shall be the lot 
of those who are thus wisely instructed, and shall descend on 
Ae community, in proportion as it has exerted itself to dif- 
fuse light and religion throughout its whole mass. 

Knowledge of itself is power ; and whea the knovvledge 
of the Lord is united \\\\h it, it is happiness and real pros- 
perity. Order reigns — the best order — that which is pro- 
duced, not so much by the coercive operations of authority 
and law, as by the independent righteousness of each indi- 
vidual, who bears about with him his own law : freedom 
finds its congenial habitation and home ; for general intelli- 
gence inspires mutual respect, and self-respect ; and, " where 
the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." 

Benevolence is ever active and zealous ; for knowledge is 
the enemy of selfishness. Religion warm? and expands the 
ifi * 



186 NATIONAL READER. 

heart, and the disciple of Christ is assured, that the best ser- 
vice of God is the service of mankind. In short, there 
cannot be other than a sense of security, and a composed 
countenance of peace, felt and experienced throughout soci- 
ety, when those principles of religious knowledge are gene- 
rally and practically received, which hold up plainly before 
the face of every man, his duty to his Maker, to his neigh- 
bour, and to his own self. 

Then there is that separate, individual peace, which takes 
up its dwelling in the hearts of all those who have been , 
taught of the Lord ; a peace, holy, heavenly, profound, ' 
which the world cannot give, because it is above the world, I 
and independent of it; the peace of a quiet conscience, of a 
regulated mind, of innocent hopes, of calm desires, of the 
love which embraces humanity, and the trust which reposes 
on Heaven ; a gentle river, running through the life, im- 
parting beauty, pouring out refreshment, and lending its 
grateful moisture to the most hidden and attenuated roots 
and threads of sentiment and feeling, clothing the sands 
with verdure, and sprinkling the lonely places ^vith sweet 
flowers. Add this peace of each single bosom to that 
general peace which pervades the community, and how 
truly may it be called great ! 

I deny not that a nation may become powerful, victorious, i 
renowned, wealthy, and full of great men, even though it 
should neglect the education of the humbler classes of 
population ; but I do deny, that it can ever become a happj 
or a truly prosperous nation, till all its children are taugl 
of the Lord. 

To say nothing of the despotisms of the east, look at thi 
kingdoms of Europe, with their battles, and their alliances 
and their pompous and gaudy ceremonies, and their impos 
ing clusters of high titles and celebrated names ; and, after 
this showy phantasmagoria has passed away, mark the con- 
dition of the majority, observe their superstition, their sla- 
;Fishness, their sensual enjoyments, their limited range of 
thought, their almost brutalized existence ; mark this, and 
say whether a heavenly peace is among them. Alas ! they 
know not the things which belong to their peace, nor 
are their rulers desirous that they should know, but rather 
prefer that they should live on in submissive ignorance, that 
they may be at all times ready to swell the trains of their 
masters' pride, and be sacrificed by hecatombs to their mas- 
ters' ambition. 



NATIONAL READER. 187 

Far different were the I'iews of those gifted patriarchs 
who founded a new empire here. They were determined 
that all their children should be taught of the Lord ; and, 
side by side with the humble dwellings, which sheltered 
their heads from the storms of a strange world, arose the 
school-house and the house of God. And, ever after, the 
result has been peace,-^great, unexampled peace ; peace to 
the few, whj gradually encroached on the primeval forests of 
the land, and peace to the millions, who have now spread 
themselves abroad in it from border to border. In the 
strength and calm resolution of that peace they stood up 
once, and shook themselves free from the rusted fetters of 
the old world ; and in the beauty and dignity of that peace 
they stand up now, self-governed, orderly, and independent, 
— a wonder to the nations. 

If a stranger should inquire of me the principal cause and 
source of this greatness of my country, would I bid him 
look on the ocean widely loaded with our merchandise, and 
proudly ranged by our navy ? or on the land where it is 
girdled by roads, and scored by canals, and burthened with 
the produce of our industry and ingenuity ? — would I bid 
him look on these things as the springs of our prosperity ? 

Indeed, I would not. Nor would I show him our colleges 
and literary institutions ; for he can see nobler ones else- 
where. I would pass all these by, and would lead him out 
by some winding highway among the hills and woods, and, 
when the cultivated spots grew small and infrequent, and 
the houses became few and scattered, and a state of primi- 
tive nature seemed to be immediately before us, I would 
stop in some sequestered spot, and, directed by a steady 
hum, like that of bees, I would point out to him a lowly 
building, hardly better than a shed, but full of blooming, 
happy children, collected together from the remote and 
unseen farm-houses, conning over their various tasks, or 
reading with a voice of reverential monotony, a portion of 
the Word of God ; and I would bid him note, that, even 
here, in the midst of poverty and sterility, was a specimen 
of the thousand nurseries, in which all our children are taught 
of the Lord, and formed, some to legislate for the land, and 
all to understand its constitution and law^s, to maintain their 
unspotted birthright, and contribute to the great aggregate 
of the intelligence, the morality, the power and peace of 
this mighty commonwealth. 



18S NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON CL 

Importance of Science to a practical Mechanic. — 
G. B. Emerson. 

Let us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- 
vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements 
of knowledge, who understands nothing of the principles 
even of his own art, and inquire what change will be 
wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in all 
that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of 
knowledge. 

He has now the capacity of thought, but it is a barren 
faculty, never nourished by the food of the mind, and never 
rising above the poor objects of sense. Labour and rest, the 
hope of mere animal enjoyment, or the fear of want, the care 
of providing covering and food, make up the whole sum of 
his existence. Such a man may be industrious, but he cannot 
love labour, for it is not relieved by the excitement of im-* 
proving or changing the processes of his art, nor cheered 
by the hope of a better condition. 

When released from labour he does not rejoice; for mere 
idleness is not enjoyment, and he has no book, no lesson 
of science, no play of the mind, no interesting pursuit, to 
give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home has few charms 
for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, the social converse, 
and exchange of feeling and thought, the innocent enjoy- 
ments, that ought to dwell there. Society has little to in- 
terest him ; for he has no sympathy for the pleasures or pur- 
suits, the cares or troubles of others, to whom he cannot feel 
nor perceive his bonds of relationship. 

All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and happy 
for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold him 
to this negative existence be not broken. Happy for him 
if that best and surest friend of man, that messenger of good 
news from heaven to the poorest wretch on earth. Religion, 
bringing the fear of God, appear to save him. Without 
her to support, should temptation assail him, what an easy 
victim would he fall to vice or crime ! How little would 
be necessary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, and leave 
bim grovelling in intemperance, or send him abroad on the 
ocean or the highway, an enemy to himself and his kind ! 

But, let the light of science fall upon that man ; open to 



NATIONAL READER. 1S9 

Iiim the fountain of knowledge. A few principles of phi- 
losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of 
thought. He begins to look upon his art with an altered 
eve. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he 
cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry, 
and begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new" mas- 
tery over his own instruments. 

He finds other and better modes of doing what he had 
done before, blindly and without interest, a thousand times. 
He learns to profit by the experience of others, and ven- 
tures upon untried paths. Difficulties, which before would 
have stopped him at the outset, receive a ready solution from 
some luminous principle of science. 

He gains new knowledge and new skill, and can improve 
the quality of his manufacture, while he shortens the process 
and diminishes his own labour. Then labour becomes sweet 
to him ; it is accompanied by the consciousness of increas- 
ing power ; it is leading him forward to a higher place among 
his fellow men. Relaxation, too, is sweet to him, as it en- 
ables him to add to his intellectual stores, and to mature, by 
undisturbed meditation, the plans and conceptions of the hour 
of labour. 

His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a 
man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu- 
sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the hon- 
est complacency, which is the companion of well-earned suc- 
cess. There, too, bright visions of the future sphere open 
upon him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those who are 
to share in his prosperity. 

Thus his mind and heart expand together. He has be- 
come an intelligent being, and, while he has learned to esteem 
himself, h e h««^_^\^«^ l*^arned to live no longer for h^ ^j^elf a lone. 
Soci' 



190 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON GIL 
Story of Rabbi Ak'iba. — Hurwitz's Hebrew Tales. 

Compelled, by violent persecution, to quit his native land, 
Rabbi Akiba wandered over barren wastes and dreary de- 
serts. His whole equipage consisted of a lamp, which he 
used to light at night, in order to study the law ; a cock, 
which served him instead of a watch, to announce to him 
the rising dawn ; and an ass, on which he rode. 

The sun was gradually sinking behind the horizon, 
night was fast approaching, and the poor wanderer knew 
hot where to shelter his head, or where to rest his weary 
limbs. Fatigued, and almost exhausted, he came at last 
near a village. He was glad to find it inhabited, thinking, 
where human beings dwelt, there dwelt, also, humanity and 
compassion. , 

But he was mistaken. He asked for a night's lodging, [ 
It was refused. Not one of the inhospitable inhabitants 
would accommodate him. He was, therefore, obliged to 
seek shelter in a neighbouring wood. " It is hard, very 
hard," said he, "not to find a hospitable roof to protect me 
against the inclemency of the weather ; but God is just, and 
whatever he does is for the best." 

He seated himself beneath a tree, lighted his lamp, and 
began to read the law. He had scarcely read a chapter, 
when a violent storm extinguished the light. "What !" ex- 
claimed he, " must I not be permitted even to pursue my 
favourite study ! But God is just, and whatever he does 
is for the best." 

He stretched himself on the earth, willipg, if possible, to 




NATIONAL READER. 191 

to the village to see whether he could procure a horse, or 
any other beast of burden, to enable him to pursue his jour- 
ney. But what was his surprise, not to find a single indi- 
vidual alive I 

It appears, that a band of robbers had entered the village 
during the night, killed its inhabitants, and plundered their 
houses. As soon as Akiba had sufficiently recovered from 
the amazement, into which this wonderful occurrence had 
thrown him, he lifted up his voice, and exclaimed, " Thou 
great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, now I 
know, by experience, that poor mortal men are short-sighted 
and blind ; often considering as evils, what was intended for 
their preservation ! But thou, alone, art just, and kind, and 
merciful. 

" Had not the hard-hearted people driven me, by their 
inhospitality, from the village, I should assuredly have shar- 
ed their fate. Had not the wind extinguished my lamp, the 
robbers would have been drawn to the spot, and have mur- 
dered me. I perceive, also, that it was thy mercy which 
deprived me of my companions, that they might not, by their 
noise, give notice to the banditti where I was. Praised^ 
then, be thy name forever and ever !" 



( 



LESSON CIIL 
Mice Fell. — ^Wordsworth. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, — 

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned,- 

When suddenly I seemed to hear 
A moan, a lamentable sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways 

I heard the sound, and more and more : 

It seemed to follow w^ith the chaise, 
And still I heard it, as before. 

At length, I to the boy called out : 
He stopped his horses at the word .; 

'But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout. 
Nor ought else like it, could be heard. 



192 NATIONAL HEADER. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain ; 

And soon I heard, upon the blast, 
The voice, and bsuie* him halt again. 

Said I, alighting on the ground, 

" What can it be, this piteous moan ?" 

And there a little girl I found. 
Sitting behind the chaise alone. 



" My cloak !" the word was last and first, 

And loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her very heart would burst ; 

And down from off the chaise she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ?" She sobbed, " Look here !" 

I saw it in the wheel entangled, — 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 

From any garden seare-crow dangled. 

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke : 
Her help she lent, and, -with good heed, 

Together we released the' cloak, — 
A wretched, wretched rag, indeed ! 

" And whither are you going, child, 
To-night, along these lonesome ways ?" 

" To Durham," answered she, half wild : — 
" Then come with me into the chaise." 

She sat like one past all relief; 

Sob after sob she forth did send 
In wretchedness, as if her grief 

Could never, never, have an end- 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ?" 

She checked herself in her distress, 
And said, *' My name is Alice Fell: 

I'm fatherless and motherless. 

" And I to Durham, sir, belong." 

And then, as if the thought would choke 

Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
And all wa? for her tattered cloak. 

^ Pr(m. bad. 



NATIONAL READER. 193 

The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 

Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
As if she'd lost her only friend, 

She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post : — 

Of Alice and her grief I told ^ 
And I gave money to the host, 

To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duffil gray. 

As warm a cloak as man can sell !" 
Proud creature was she, the next day, 

The little orphan, Alice Fell. 



LESSON CIV. 
To the Molian Harp. — European Magazine. 

Harp of the Zephyr, whose least breath, o'er 
Thy tender string moving, is felt by thee ; — 

Harp of the whirlwind, whose fearfullest roar 
Can arouse thee to nought but harmony : — 

The leaf that curls upon youth's warm hand, 
Hath not a more sensitive soul than thou ; 

Yet the spirit that's in thee, unharmed, can withstand 
The blast that shivers the stout oak bough. 

When thankless flowers in silence bend. 

Thou hailest the freshness of heaven with song ; 

When forests the air with their bowlings rend. 
Thou soothest the storm as it raves along. 

Yes : thine is the magic of Friendship's bower, — 

That holiest temple of all below : — 
Thou hast accents of bliss for the calmest hour, 

But a heavenlier note for the season of wo. 

Harp of the breeze, whether gentle or strong, 
When shall I feel thy enchantment again i" 
17 



i94 NATIONAL READER. 

Hark ! hark ! — even the swell of my own wild song 
Hath awakened a mild, responsive strain. 

It is not an echo : 'tis far too sweet 

To be bom of a lay so rude as mine : 
But, oh ! when terror and softness meet, 

How pure are the hues of the wreath they twined 

Thus the breath of my rapture hath swept thy chords, 
And filled them with music, alas ! not its own, 

Whose melody tells but how much my words, 

Though admiring, have wronged that celestial tone. 

I hear it, — I hear it, — now fitfully swelling, 
Like a chorus of seraphim earthward hying ; 

And now, — as in search of a loftier dwelling, — 
The voices away, one by one, are dying. 

Heaven's own harp ! save angel fingers, 

None should dare open thy mystic treasures. 

Farewell I for each note on mine ear still lingers. 
And mine may not mingle with thy blest measures. 



LESSON CV. 
Burial of Sir John Moore* — Anonymous. 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note. 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moon-beam's misty lightj 
And the lantern, dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him -^ 

But he lay, like a warriour taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

* Who fell in the battle of Coamna, in Spain, 1308. 



NATIONAL READER. 19# 

Few and short were the praj^ers v/e said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead^ 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe would be riotmg over his head, 
And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

Bnt nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, 
hi the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard, by the distant random gun, 
That the foe was suddenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But left him alone \vith his glory. 



LESSON CVL 



Wai contrary to the Courses of Nature, and the Spirit of Vie 
Gospel. — Mellen. 

Oh ! how shall man his crime extenuate ! 
What sees he in this brave o'erarching sphere, 
The rich domain of nature, that will hold 
A moment's friendship with his cheerless way ! 
He looks upon the wide and glowing earth, 
And hears the hum of bees, and sees its bloom 
Rolling in all its luxury for him. 
'He sees the trees wave in the peaceful sky. 
And dally with the breezes as they pass. 
He sees the golden harvest stoop for him, 
And feels a quietness on all the hills. 
He looks upon the seasons, as they come 
In beautiful succession, from the heavens. 
With bud and blossoming, and fruits, and snows. 



196 NATIONAL READER. 

There is no w^ar among them : they pass on, 
Light beaming from their footsteps as they go, 
And, with the cheerful voice of sympathy, 
They give a melody to all the earth, 
Each calling to the other through the year ! 
He looks upon the firmament, at night : 
There are a thousand lustres hanging there, 
Mocking the splendors of Golconda : there 
He sees the glorious company of stars. 
Journeying in peace and beauty through the deep, -» 
Shining in praise forever ! They look down, 
Each like a bright and calm Intelligence, 
Above a sphere they all compassionate. 
There is no war among these sparkling hosts : 
They go in silence through the great profound, 
Each on its way of glory : they proclaim) 
^ [The order and magnificence of Him, 

"^Vho bade them roll in peace around his throne \ 

Oh ! when the planet shone o'er Bethlehem, 
And light came round the shepherds on the hills, 
And wise men rose in wonder from their dreams, 
There came a voice sublime upon the winds. 
Proclaiming Peace above a prostrate world ! 
The. morning stars sang Peaee : the sons of Crod/> 
Struck all their heavenly lyres again ; and Peace 
Died in symphonious murmurs round the babe. 
Thus broke Salvation's morning. But the day 
Has heard new sounds ; au(^ dissonant and dire, 
The mingled tumult ^welled the coming storm. 
Darkening its path with black, portentous front, 
Gntil it burst in havoc and in war ! 
Oh ! may the fearful eventide of time, 
Find man upon the dust in penitence, 
In the strong brotherhood of Peace and prayer. 



LESSON cvn. 



Brief Account of the first Settlers of New England; their de- 
parture from Europe ; and their landing at Plymouth^ Mass. 
22d Dec. 1620. — Abridged from Robertson and Neal. 

Robert Brown, a popular preacher in high estimation 
among the Puritans of England, in the reign of Queen 



NATIONAL READER. 197 

Elizabeth, maintained that a society of Christians, uniting 
together to worship God, constituted a church, possessed 
of complete jurisdiction in the conduct of its own aflfairs, 
independent of any other society, and accountable to no su- 
perior : — that the priesthood neither was a distinct order in 
the church, nor conferred an indelible character ; but that 
every man, qualified to teach, might be set apart for that of- 
fice by the election of the brethren, and by imposition of 
their hands ; and that, in like manner, by their authority, he 
might be discharged from that function, and reduced to 
the rank of a private Christian. 

Those who adopted this democratical form of govern- 
ment, which abolished all distinction of ranks in the church, 
and conferred an equal portion of power on each individual, 
were, from the founder of the sect, denominated Brownists : 
and, as their tenets were more hostile to the established re- 
ligion than those of other separatists, the fiercest storm of 
persecution fell upon their heads. Many of them were fined 
or imprisoned, and some were put to death. 

Still, the sect not only subsisted, but continued to spread. 
But, as all their motions were carefully watched, both by 
the ecclesiastical and civil courts, which, as often as they 
were detected, punished them with the utmost rigour, a 
body of them, weary of living in a state of continual dan- 
ger and alarm, fled to Holland, and settled in Leyden, under 
the care of Mr. John Robinson their pastor. 

There they resided for several years, immolested and ob- 
scure. But, many of their aged members dying, and some 
of the younger marrying into Dutch families, while their 
church received no increase, either by recruits from Eng-' 
land, or by proselytes gained in the country, they began to be 
afraid, that all their high attainments in spiritual knowledge 
would be lost, and that that perfect fabric of policy, which 
they had erected, would be dissolved, and consigned to ob- 
livion, if they remained longer in a strange land. 

At length, after several solemn addresses to Heaven, the 
younger part of the congregation resolved to remove into 
some part of America, under the protection of the king of 
^England, where they might enjoy the liberty of their con- 
sciences, and be capable of encouraging their friends and 
countrymen to follow them. 

Accordingly, they sent over agents into England, who, hav- 
ing obtained a patent from the crown, agreed with several 
merchants to become advent^arers in the undertaking. Se- 
17* 



198 NATIONAL READER. 

veral of Mr. Robinson's congregation sold their estates, and 
made a common bank, with which they purchased a small 
ship of sisty tons,* and hired another of one hundred and 
eighty.! 

The agents sailed into Holland with their own ship, to 
take in as many of the congregation as were willing to em- 
bark, while the other vessel was freighting with all neces- 
saries for the new plantation. All things being ready, Mr. 
Robinson observed a day of fasting and prayer with his 
congregation, and took his leave of the adventurers with 
the following truly generous and Christian exhortation : 

" Brethren, — We are now quickly to part from one ano- 
ther, and whether I may ever live to see your faces on earth 
any more, the God of heaven only knows ; but, whether the 
Lord has appointed that or no, I charge you, before God and 
his blessed angels, that you follow me no farther than you 
have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ. 

" If God reveal any thing to you, by any other instrument 
of his, be as ready to receive it as ever you were to receive 
any truth by my ministry ; for I am verily persuaded, the 
Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of his holy word. 
For my part, I cannot sufficiently bewail the condition of 
the reformed churches, who are come to a period in religion, 
and will go at present no farther than the instruments of 
their reformation. The Lutherans cannot be drawn to go 
beyond what Luther saw : whatever part of his will our 
God has revealed to Calvin, they will rather die than em- 
brace it ; and the Calvinists, you see, stick fast where they 
■xveie left by that great man of God, who yet saw not all 
things. 

" This is a misery much to be lamented ; for, though they 
were burning and shining lights in their times, yet they pe- 
netrated not into the whole counsel of God, but, were they 
now living, would be as willing to embrace further light as 
that which they first received. I beseech you remember, 
it is an article of your church covenant, that you be ready to 
receive ivhatever truth shall be made known to you from the 
writteTirWord of God. Remember that, and every other ar- 
ticle of your sacred covenant. But I must hercAvithal ex- 
hort you to take heed what you receive as truth ; examine 
it, consider it, and compare it with other scriptures of truth, 
before you receive it ; for it is not possible the Christian 

* The Speedwell. j The May-Flower. 



NATIONAL READER. 199 

world should come so lately out of such thick antichristian 
darkness, and that perfection of knowledge should break 
forth at once. 

" I must also advise you to abandon, avoid, and shake off 
the name of Brownists ; it is a mere nick-name, and a brand 
for the making of religion, and the professors of it, odious to 
the Christian world." 

On the 1st of July, 1620, the adventurers went from Leyden 
to Delfthaven, whither Mr. Robinson and the ancients of his 
congregation accompanied them ; they continued together 
all night ; and next morning, after mutual embraces, Mr. 
Robinson kneeled down on the sea-shore, and, with a fer- 
vent prayer, committed them to the protection and blessing 
of Heaven. The adventurers were about one hundred and 
twenty, who, having joined their other ship, sailed for New 
England, August 5th ; but, one of their vessels proving leaky, 
they left it, and embarked in one vessel, which arrived at 
Cape Cod, November 9th, 1620. 

Sad was the condition of these poor men, who had the win- 
ter before them, and no accommodations at hand for their 
entertainment : most of them were in a weak and sickly 
condition with the voyage : but there was no remedy : they 
therefore manned their long boat, and, having coasted the 
shore, at length found a tolerable harbour, where they land- 
ed, with a part of their effects, on the 22d of December, 
and, on the 2oth, began to build a storehouse, and some small 
cottages, to preserve them from the weather. 

Their company was divided into nineteen families, each 
family having an allotment of land for lodging and gardens, 
in proportion to the number of persons of which it consist- 
ed ; and, to prevent disputes, the situation of each family 
was decided by lot. They agreed likewise upon some laws 
for their civil and military government, and, having chosen 
a governor, they called the place of their settlement by the 
name of New Plymouth. 

Inexpressible were the hardships these new planters un- 
derwent, the first winter. A sad mortality raged among them, 
occasioned by the fatigues of their late voyage, by the severity 
of the weather, and their want of necessaries. The coun- 
try was full of woods and thickets; their poor cottages 
could not keep them warm ; they had no physician, or whole- 
some food ; so that, within two or three months, half their 
company was dead, and of them who remained alive — 
about fifty—not above six or seven at a time were capa- 



200 NATIONAL READER. 

ble of helping the rest. But, as the spring came on, they 
recovered, and, having received some fresh supplies from 
their friends in England, they maintained their station, and 
laid the foundation of one of the noblest settlements in 
America, which from that time has proved an asylum for the 
Protestant Non-conformists under all their oppressions. 



LESSON CYIIL 



Extract from an Oration^ delivered at Plymouth^ Mass. 22 Dec. 
1S24, in commemoration of the landing of the Pilgrims. — 
E. Everett. 

It is not by pompous epithets or lively antitheses, that the 
exploits of the pilgrims are to be set forth by their children. 
We can only do this worthily, by repeating the plain tale 
of their sufferings, by dwelling on the circumstances under 
which their memorable enterprise was executed, and by 
cherishing and uttering that spirit, which led them across 
the ocean, and guided them to the spot where we stand. — 
We need no voice of artificial rhetoric to celebrate their 
names. The bleak and deathlike desolation of nature pro- 
claims, with touching eloquence, the fortitude and patience 
of the meek adventurers. On the bare and wintry fields 
around us, their exploits are written in characters, which 
will last, and tell their tale to posterity, when brass and mar- 
ble have crumbled into dust. 

The occasion which has called us together is certainly 
one, to which no parallel exists in the history of the world. 
Other countries, and our own also, have their national fes- 
tivals. They commemorate the birthdays of their illustri- 
ous children ; they celebrate the foundation of important 
institutions : momentous events, victories, reformations, re- 
volutions, awaken, on their anniversaries, the grateful and 
patriotic feelings of posterity. But we commemorate the 
birthday of all New England ; the foundation, not of one 
institution, but of all the institutions, the settlements, the 
establishments, the communities, the societies, the improve- 
ments, comprehended within our broad and happy borders. 

Were it only as an act of rare adventure ; were it a trait 
in foreign or ancient history ; we should fix upon the 
achievement of our fathers, as one of the noblest deeds in 
the ?uinais of the world. Were we attracted to it by no 



NATIONAL READER. ^01 

other principle than that sympathy we feel in all the for- 
tunes of our race, it could lose nothing — it must gain — in 
the contrast, with whatever history or tradition has pre- 
served to us of the wanderings and settlements of the tribes 
of man. A continent for the first time effectually explored ; 
a vast ocean traversed by men, women, and children, volun- 
tarily exiling themselves from the fairest regions of the old 
world ; and a great nation grown up, in the space of two 
centuries, on the foundations so perilously laid by this pious 
band : — point me to the record, to the tradition, nay, to the 
fiction, of any thing, that can enter into competition with 
it. It is the language, not of exaggeration, but of truth and 
soberness, to say, that there is nothing in the accounts of 
Phenician, of Grecian, or of Roman colonization, that can 
stand in the comparison. 

What new importance, then, does not the achievement 
acquire to our minds, v»^hen we consider that it was the deed 
of our fathers ; that this grand undertaking was accomplish- 
ed on the spot where we dwell ; that the mighty region 
they explored is our native land ; that the unrivalled enter- 
prise they displayed is not merely a fact proposed to our 
admiration, but is the source of our being ; that their cruel 
hardships are the spring of our prosperity; their amazing 
sufferings the seed, from which our happiness has sprung ; 
that their weary banishment gave us a home ; that to their 
separation from every thing which is dear and pleasant in 
life, we owe all the comforts, the blessings, the privileges, 
which make our lot the envy of mankind. 



LESSON CIX. 

Second Extract^ frmi the same. 



It was not enough that our fathers were of England : the 
masters of Ireland, and the lords of Hindostan, are of Eng- 
land too. But our fathers were Englishmen, aggrieved, per- 
secuted, and banished. It is a principle, amply borne out 
by the history of the great and powerful nations of the earth, 
and by that of none more than the country of which we 
speak, that the best fruits and choicest action of the com''- 
mendable qualities of the national character, are to be found 
on the side of the oppressed few, and not of the triumphant 



202 NATIONAL READER. 

many. As, in private character, adversity is often requisite 
to give a proper direction and temper to strong qualities ; so 
the noblest traits of national character, even under the freest 
and most independent of hereditary governments, are com- 
monly to be sought in the ranks of a protesting minority, or 
of a dissenting sect. Never was this truth more clearly il- 
lustrated than in the settlement of New England. 

Could a common calculation of policy have dictated the 
terms of that settlement, no doubt our foundations would 
have been laid beneath the royal smile. Convoys and na- 
vies would have been solicited to waft our fathers to the 
coast ; armies, to defend the infant communities ; and the 
flattering patronage of princes and lords, to espouse their in- 
terests in the councils of the mother country. Happy, that 
our fathers enjoyed no such patronage ; happy, that they 
fell into no such protecting bands ; happy, that our founda- 
tions were silently and deeply cast, in quiet insignificance, 
beneath acharterof banishment, persecution, and contempt; 
feothat, when the royal arm was at length outstretched against 
lis, instead of a submissive child, tied dow^ n by former graces, 
it found a youthful giant in the land, born amidst hard- 
ships, and nourished on the rocks, indebted for no favours, 
and owing no duty. From the dark portals of the star cham- 
ber, and in the stern text of the acts of uniformity, the pil- 
grims received a commission more efficient than any that 
ever bore the royal seal. Their banishment to Holland was 
fortunate ; the decline of Iheir little company in the strange 
land was fortunate ; the difficulties which they experienced 
in getting the royal consent to banish themselves to this 
wilderness w ere fortunate ; all the tears and heart breakings 
of that ever-memorable parting at Delfthaven had the hap- 
piest influence on the rising destinies of New England. 
Ail this purified the ranks of the settlers. These rough 
touches of fortune brushed ofl" the light, uncertain, selfish 
spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying expe- 
dition, and required of those who engaged in it, to be so 
too. They cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousness 
over the cause, and, if this sometimes deepened into melan- 
choly and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a hu- 
man weakness ? 

It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters, w^hich the little 
band of pilgrims encountered ; — sad to see a portion of 
them, the prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously em- 
barked in an unsound, unseaw^orthy ship, which they are 



NATIONAL HEADER. 203 

soon obliged to abandon, and crowd tliemselves into one 
vessel — one hundred persons, besides the ship's company, 
in a vessel of one hundred and eighty tons. One is touched 
at the story of the long, cold, and weary autumnal passage ; 
of the landing on the inhospitable rocks at this dismal sea- 
son, where they are deserted, before long, by the ship w^hich 
had brought them, and which seemed their only hold upon 
the world of fellow men, — a prey to the elements and to want, 
and fearfully ignorant of the numbers, the power, and the 
temper of the savage tribes, that filled the unexplored con- 
tinent, upon whose verge they had ventured. But all this 
wrought together for good. These trials of wandering and 
exile, of the ocean, the winter, the wilderness, and the savage 
foe, were the final assurance of success. It was these that 
put far away from our fathers' cause all patrician softness, 
all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No effeminate no- 
bility crow^ded into the dark ami austere ranks of the pil- 
grims ; no Carr nor Villiers would lead on the ill-provided 
band of despised Puritans ; no well-endow-ed clergy were 
on the alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous 
hierarchy in the frozen wilderness ; no craving governors 
were anxious to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados 
of ice and of snow. No ; they could not say they had en- 
couraged, patronised, or helped the pilgrims : their own 
cares, their own labours, their ov/n councils, their own blood, 
contrived all, achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could 
not afterwards fairly pretend to reap w^iere they had not 
strown : and, as our fathers reared this broad and solid fa- 
bric with pains and w^atchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, 
it did not fall when the favour, w^iich had always been w^ith- 
holden, was changed into wrath ; when the arm, which had 
never supported, was raised to destroy, 

Mechinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous ves- 
sel, the May-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the 
prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown 
sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks 
and months pass, and v/inter surprises them on the deep, 
but brings them not the sight of the w ished-for shore. I 
see them now scantily supplied v/ith provisions, crowded 
almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by 
calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; — and nov/ driven in fury 
before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 
The awful voice of thje storm fe^w Is through the figging ; 



204 NATIONAL READER. 

the labouring mttsts seem straining from their base; the 
dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it 
were, madly, from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and 
settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and 
beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the stag- 
gered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pur- 
suing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, 
after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Ply- 
mouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, 
scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship- 
master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but 
water on shore,— rwithout shelter, — rwithout means, — sur- 
rounded by hostile, tribes. Shut now the volume of history, 
and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what 
shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. — Tell me, 
man of military science, in how many months were they all 
swept ofl* by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within 
the early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, Jiow 
long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions 
and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? 
Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the 
deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other 
times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's 
storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and chil- 
dren ; was it hard labour and spare meals ; was it dis- 
ease ; was it the tomahawk ; was it the deep malady of a 
blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, 
aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved 
and left, beyond the sea; — was it some, or all of these 
united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- 
choly fate ? — And is it possible that neither of these causes, 
that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ! — 
Is it possible, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expan- 
sion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be 
fulfilled, so glorious i * * * * 

I do not fear that we shall be accused of extravagance in 
the enthusiasm we feel at a train of events of such asto- 
nishing magnitude, novelty, and consequence, connected, by 
associations so intimate, with the day we now hail, with 
the events we now celebrate, with the pilgrim fathers of 
New England. Victims of persecution ! how wide an em- 
pire acknowledges the svvay of your principles ! Apostles 



NATIONAL READER. 205 

of liberty ! what millions attest the authenticity of your 
mission ! Meek champions of truth ! no stain of private in- 
terest, or of innocent blood, is on the spotless garments of 
your renown ! The great continents of America have be- 
come, at length, the theatre of your achievements ; the At- 
lantic and the Pacific the highways of communication, on 
which your principles, your institutions, your example, are 
borne. From the oldest abodes of civilization, the venerable 
plains of Greece, to the scarcely explored range of the Cor- 
dilleras, the impulse you gave at length is felt. While other 
regions revere you as the leaders of this great march of 
humanity, we are met, on this joyful day, to offer to your 
memories our tribute of filial affection. The sons and 
daughters of the pilgrims, we have assembled on the spot 
where you, our suffering fathers, set foot on this happy shore. 
Happy, indeed, it has been for us. that you could have 
enjoyed those blessings, which you prepared for your chil- 
dren ! — that our comfortable homes could have shielded you 
from the wintry air ; our abundant harvests have supplied 
you in time of famine ; and the broad shield of our be- 
loved country have sheltered you from the visitations of 
arbitrary power! We come, in our prosperity, to remember 
your trials ; and here, on the spot where New England be- 
gan to be, we come to learn, of our pilgrim fathers, a deep 
and lasting lesson of virtue, enterprise, patience, zeal, and 
feith ! 



LESSON ex. 



Claim of the Pilgnms to the Reverence and Qratitude of their 
Descendants. — 0. Dewey. 

Let it not be forgotten, at least by us, the immediate de- 
scendants of the Puritans — for the sake of our gratitude and 
our virtue, too, let it not be forgotten — that, when the weary 
pilgrim traversed this bleak coast, his step was lightened, 
and his heart was cheered, by the thoughts of a virtuous 
posterity; that, when our fathers touched this land, they 
would fain have consecrated it as a holy land ; that, when 
they entered it, they lifted up their eyes towards heaven 
and said, " Let this be the land of refuge for the oppressed 
and persecuted, — the knd of knowledge ; and, ! let it be 
18 



206 NATIONAL READER. 

the land of piety." Let the descendants of the pilgrims 
know, that if their fathers "w.ept, it was not for themselves 
alone ; if they toiled, they toiled, or — as one of them nobly 
said, — ^they " spent their time, and labours, and endeavours, 
for the benefit of them who should come after ;" that if 
they prayed, they prayed not for themselves alone, but for 
their posterity. And, little, it may be, do we know of the 
fervour and fortitude of that prayer. When we pray, we 
kneel on pillows of down, beneath our oWn comfortable 
dwellings : but the pilgrims kneeled on the frozen and flinty 
shore. Our prayers ascend within the walls of the conse-»- 
crated temple : but the mighty wave and the shapeless 
rock, and the dark forest, were their walls : and no shelter- 
ing dome had they, but the rolling clouds of winter, and the 
chill and bleak face of heaven. We pray in peace, and 
quietness, and safety : but their anxious and wrestling sup- 
plication went up amidst the stirring of the elements, and the 
struggle for life ; and often was the feeble cry of the de- 
fenceless band broken by the howling of wild beasts, and 
the war-whoop of wilder savages. 

Yes, our lot has fallen to us in different times ; and now it 
is easy for us, no doubt, calmly to surv^ey the actions of those 
who were engaged in the heat of the contest ; and we have 
leisure to talk at large about ignorance, and bigotry, and su- 
perstition ; and we can take the seat of grave wisdom, and 
philosophize upon the past, when to philosophize is all that we 
can do. Yes, it is easy, now that the forest is cleared away, 
and we bask in the sunshine which they have opened upon 
us, through the deep and dark foliage, — it is easy, no doubt, 
coolly and nicely to mark their mistakes and errors : — but 
go back to their struggle with fear, and want, and disease ; 
go to the fields which they cultivated, and see them with the 
felling axe in one hand, and the weapon of defence in the 
other ; go back to all the rude dwellings of their poverty and 
trouble : — but you cannot, even in imagination, you cannot. 
No : the days of trial and suffering have been ; but it is not 
for us even to undei*stand what they were ! This little only 
is required of us — to do justice to the virtues which we have 
no longer any opportunity to imitate. 

Nor, in urging such an obligation as this, has it often been 
found necessary to com'bat the prejudices of mankind. On 
the contrary, there has been a universal propensity to do more 
than justice, to do honour, to the achievements of past times. 
There never was a people, unless we are the exception, who 



NATIONAL READER. 207 

were not inclined to receive the most specious story that 
could be told of their ancestry, who were not glad to have 
their actions set forth in splendid fable. The epic histo- 
ries of Homer and Virgil, all fabulous as they were, were 
received with uncontrollable bursts of enthusiasm by their 
respective nations. The Israelites sung the early history 
of their wandering tribes, in all their solemn assemblies. 
The memory of former days and of elder deeds, has always, 
and among all nations, been held sacred. The rudest peo- 
ple have not been wanting to their still ruder ancestry. Im- 
mortal poems have preserved their memory ; or their bal- 
lads of olden time have kept alive, with their simple tale, 
the recollection of ancient heroism and suffering. In after 
days History takes up the theme, and, 

'' Proud of the treasure, marches down with it 
To latest times 3 and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, 
To gTiard them, and to immortalize her trust." 

This propensity has given a language to nature itself. 
There is no portion of the earth but has had its consecrated 
spots : — ^places, the bare mention of which is enough to awak- 
en, in all ages, the reverence and enthu 'asm of mankind. 
There is some hill or mountain, that stands as a monument 
of ancient deeds. There is some field of conflict, which 
needs no memorial but a name ; or some rude heap of stones 
at Gilgal, that needs no inscription ; or some rod that is ever 
budding afresh with remembrance. 

And is our own land destitute of every scene that is wor- 
thy to be remembered ? Among all these rich and peace- 
ful scenes around us, there is not a plain, but it has been the 
trenched field of the warrior : there is not a hill, but it 
stands as a monument. And the structures of art, that shall 
rise upon them, shall only point them out to other times, as 
holy. But harder contests than those of blood and battle 
have been sustained in this land. And the Rock of Ply- 
mouth shall, in all ages, be celebrated as the Thermopylae 
of this new world, where a handful of men held conflict 
with ghastly famine, and sweeping pestilence, and the win- 
try storm ; held conflict, and were not conquered. And, so 
long as centuries shall roll over this happy and rising na- 
tion, shall wealth, and taste, and talent, resort to that hallow- 
ed spot, to pay homage to the elder fathers of New Eng- 
land. — Go, children of the pilgrims, — might we say to all 



208 NATIONAL READER. 

the inhabitants of the land, — it is well to gather around that 
shrine of our fathers' virtues, that monument of their toils 
and sufferings, which the chafing billows of the ocean shall 
never wear away. It is well to make a holy pilgrimage to 
that sacred spot. It is well that gifted orators and states- 
men should proclaim our enthusiasm and our gratitude in 
(he listening assembly. But with what striking emphasis 
might it be said, to those who make this pilgrimage at the 
present day, " Ye go, not as your fathers came^ in weariness 
and sorrow — not as they came, amidst poverty, and peril, and 
sickness — not through the solitary glooms and howling storms 
of the wilderness ; but ye go, through rich plantations and 
happy villages, with chariots, and horses, and equipage, and 
state, with social mirth and joyful minstrelsy and music ; but, 
ah ! remember that ye are gathering to the spot, which was 
once trodden by the steps of the houseless wanderer, which 
was marked with the pilgrim's staff, and watered with the 
pilgrim's tears. * * * * 

The claims of ancestry, we know, are commonly held 
sacred, in proportion as its date is removed back into ages 
of antiquity ; in proportion to the number of successive 
generations that have intervened ; in proportion as fiction 
and romance find aid in the darkness of some remote and 
unknown period. But, though the character of our fathers 
needs no such aid, yet I can scarcely conceive any thing 
more romantic even, than their entrance into this vast do- 
main of nature, never before disturbed by the footsteps of 
civilized man. They came to the land where fifty centu- 
ries had held their reign, with no pen to write their history. 
Silence, which no occupation of civilized life had broken, 
was in all its borders, and had been from the creation. 
The lofty oak had grown through its lingering age, and de- 
cayed, and perished, without name or record. The storm had 
risen and roared in the wilderness ; and none had caught 
its sublime inspiration. The fountains had flowed on ; the 
mighty river had poured its useless waters ; the cataract had 
lifted up its thunderings to the march of time ; and no eye had 
seen it, but that of the wild tenants of the desert. A band 
of fugitives came to this land of barbarism, with no patron- 
age, but the prayers of the friends they had left behind 
them ; vdth no wealth, but habits of industry ; with no 
power, but what lay in firm sinews and courageous hearts ; 
and with these they turned back the course of ages. 
Pilgrims from the old world, they became inheritors of the 



NATIONAL READER. 20D 

new. They set up the standard of Christianity ; they 
opened the broad pathways of knowledge ; the forest melt- 
ed away before them, like a dark vapour of the morning ; 
the voice of comfort, the din of business, went back into 
its murmuring solitudes ; the wilderness and solitary place 
were glad for them ; the desert rejoiced and blossomed as 
the rose. We might almost take the description of it from 
the language of prophecy. The lamb lies down in the den 
of the wolf; and where the ^vild beast prowled, is now 
the grazing ox. " The cow and the bear feed, and their 
young ones lie down together. The suckling child plays 
on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child puts his hand 
on the adder's den." Where the deep wood spread its soli- 
tary glooms, and the fierce savage laid his dark and deadly 
ambush, are now the sunny hill-side, and the waving field, 
and the flowery plain ; and the unconscious child holds his 
gambols on the ground that has been trodden with weari- 
ness, and watered with tears, and stained with the blood of 
strife and slaughter. 

These are the days, these are the men, that we are 
called upon to remember and to honour. But it is not 
enough to remember their deeds : we are bound to imitate 
their virtues. This is the true, the peculiar honour, 
which we are bound to render to such an ancestry. The 
common measure of national intelligence and virtue is no 
rule for us. It is not enough for us to be as wise and 
improved, as virtuous and pious, as other nations. Provi- 
dence, in giving to us an origin so remarkable and signally 
favoured, demands of us a proportionate improvement. We 
are in our infancy, it is true, but our existence began in an 
intellectual maturity. Our fathers' virtues were the virtues 
of the wilderness, — yet without its wildness ; hardy, and vig- 
orous, and severe, indeed, — ^but not rude, nor mean. Let us 
beware lest we become more prosperous than they, — more 
abundant in luxuries, and refinements, — only to be less tem- 
perate, upright, and religious. Let us beware lest the 
stern and lofty features of primeval rectitude should be re- 
garded with less respect among us. Let us beware lest 
their piety should fall with the oaks of their forests ; lest the 
loosened bow of early habits and opinions, which was once 
strung in the wilderness, should be too much relaxed. 
18* 



210 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON CXL 

Song of the Pilgrims.'— -Vphavi. 

Written, 1823. 

The breeze has swelled the whitening sail. 
The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
We leave Old England's shores behind : — 
Leave behind our native shore, 
Homes, and all we loved before. 

The deep may dash, the winds may blow, 
The storm spread out its wings of wo, 
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud, 
Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
Still, as long as life shall last. 
From that shore we'll speed us fast. 

For we would rather never be. 
Than dwell where mind cannot be free, 
But bows beneath a despot's rod 
Even where it seeks to worship God. 

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep ! 

Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 

O, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 

Another land, and other skies ! 

Columbian hills have met our view ? 

Adieu ! Old England's shores, adieu I 
Here, at length, our feet shall rest, 
Hearts be free, and homes be blest. 

As long as yonder firs* shall spread 
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,- 
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, 
Where join the ocean and the land, — 

Shall those cliffs and mountains be 

Proud retreats for liberty. 

Now to the King of kings we'll raise 
The pae'an loud of sacred praise, 
^ Pron. ferz. 



NATIONAL READER. 211 

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, 
More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 

Happier lands have met our view ! 

England's shores, adieu ! adieu I 



LESSON CXIL 



The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. — Mrs. Hem'an». 

Written, 1825. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast; 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy nighTliung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; — 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame j — 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence, and in fear : — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle spared 

From his nest, by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest soared : — 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary ^lair 
Amidst that pilgrim band : 



212 NATIONAL READER. 

Why had they come to wither there, 
Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ?— 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Ay, call it holy ground, — 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



LESSON cxm. 

The Pilgrim Fathers. — ORIGINAL. 

Written, 1824. 

The pilgrim fathers — where are they > 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore : 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 

When the May-Flower moored below. 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep. 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; — 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name I— 
The bill, whose icy brow 



I 



NATIONAL READER. 213 

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

in the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head :— - 

But the pilgrim — where is he ? 

The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 

When Summer's throned on high. 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed. 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world. 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The pilgrim spirit hdiS not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light; ** 

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars, by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have I)led, 

And shall guard this ice-bound -shore, 
Till the waves of the bay, w^here tJLe^May-Flower fay, 

Shall foam and freeze no 



vhere tlie^J 
more^ 



LESSON CXIV. 



Character of the Puritan Fathers of New England.--^ 
Greenwood. 

One of the most prominent features, which distinguished 
our forefathers, was their determined resistance to oppres- 
sion. They seemed born and brought up, for the high and 
special purpose of showing to the world, that the civil and 
religious rights of man, the rights of self-government, of 
conscience and independent thought, are not merely things 
to be talked of, and woven into theories, but to be adopted 
with the whole strength and ardour of the mind, and felt 
in the profoundest recesses of the heart, and carried out 
into the general life, and made the foundation of practical 
usefulness, and visible beauty, and true nobility. 

Liberty, with them, was an object of too serious desire 
and stern resolve, to be personified, allegorized and enshrin- 



214 NATIONAL READER. 

ed. They made no goddess of it, as the ancients did ; they 
had no time nor inclination for such trifling ; they felt that 
liberty was the simple birthright of every human creature ; 
they called it so ; they claimed it as such ; they reverenced 
and held it fast as the unalienable gift of the Creator, which 
was not to be surrendered to power, nor sold for wages. 

It was theirs, as men ; without it, they did not esteem 
themselves men ; more than any other privilege or posses- 
sion, it was essential to their happiness, for it was essential 
to their original nature; and therefore they preferred it 
above wealth, and^ ease, and country ; and, that they might 
enjoy and exercise it fully, they forsook houses, and lands, 
and kindred, their homes, their native soil, and their fathers' 
graves. 

They left all these ; they left England, which, whatever 
it might have been called, was not to them a land of free- 
dom ; they launched forth on the pathless ocean, the wide, 
fathomless oceaii, soiled not by the earth beneath, and bound- 
ed, all round and above, only by heaven ; and it seemed to 
them like that better and sublimer freedom, which their 
country knew not, but of which they had the conception 
and image in their hearts ; and, after a toilsome and painful 
voyage, they came to a hard and wintry coast, unfruitful and 
desolate, but unguarde(Land boundless ; its calm silence in- 
terrupted not the ascenWof their prayers ; it had no eyes to 
watch, no ears to hearken, no tongues to report of them ; 
here again there was an answer to their souls' desire, and 
they were satisfied, and gave thanks ; they saw that they 
were free, and the desert smiled. 

I am telling an old tale ; but it is one which must be told, 
when we speak of those men. It is to be added, that they 
transmitted their principles to their children, and that, peo- 
pled by such a race, our country was always free. So long 
as its inhabitants were unmolested by the mother country 
in the exercise of their important rights, they submitted to 
the form of English government; but when those rights 
were invaded, they spurned even the form away. 

This act was the revolution, which came of course, and 
spontaneously, and had nothing in it of the wonderful or 
imforeseen. The wonder would have been, if it had not 
occurred. It was indeed a happy and glorious event, but 
by no means unnatural ; and I intend no slight to the rever- 
ed actors in the revolution, when I assert, that their fathers 
before them were as free as they, — every whit as free. 

The principles of the revolution were not the suddenly 



NATIONAL READER. 215 

acquired property of a few bosoms; they were abroad iu 
the land in the ages before ; they had always been taught, 
like the truths of the Bible ; they had descended from fa- 
ther to son, down from those primitive days, when the pil- 
grim, established in his simple dwelling, and seated at his 
blazing fire, piled high from the forest which shaded his 
door, repeated to his listening children the story of his 
wrongs and his resistance, and bade them rejoice, though 
the wild winds and the wild beasts were howling without, 
that they had nothing to fear from great men's oppression 
and the bishops' rage. 

Here were the beginnings of the revolution. Every set- 
tler's hearth was a school of independence ; the scholars 
were apt, and the lessons sunk deeply ; and thus it came 
that our country was always free; it could not be other 
than free. 

As deeply seated as vvas the principle of liberty and re- 
sistance to arbitrary power, in the breasts of the Puritans, 
it was not more so than their piety and sense of religious 
obligation. They were emphatically a people, whose God 
was the Lord. Their form of government was as strictly 
theocratical, if direct communication be excepted, as was 
that of the Jews ; insomuch that it would be difficult to 
say where there was any civil authority among them en- 
tirely distinct from ecclesiastical jurisdiction. 

Whenever a few of them settled a town, they immedi- 
ately gathered themselves into a church ; and their elders 
were magistrates, and their code of laws was the Penta- 
teuch. These were forms, it is true, but forms which faith- 
fully indicated principles and feelings ; for no people could 
have adopted such forms, who were not thoroughly imbued 
with the spirit, and bent on the practice, of religion. 

God was their King ; and they regarded him as truly and 
literally so, as if he had dwelt in a visible palace in the 
midst of their state. They were his devoted, resolute, hum- 
ble subjects ; they undertook nothing which they did not 
beg of him to prosper ; they accomplished nothing without 
rendering to him the praise ; they suffered nothing without 
carrying up their sorrows to his throne ; they ate* nothing 
which they did not implore him to bless. 

Their piety was not merely external ; it was sincere ; it 
had the proof of a good tree, in bearing good fruit ; it pro- 
duced and sustained a strict morality. Their tenacious pu- 
rity of manners and speech obtained for them, in the mother 
* Pron. et. 



216 NATIONAL READER. 

couutry, their name of Puritaas ; whkh, though given in 
derision, was as honourable a one as was ever bestowed by- 
man on man. 

That there were hypocrites among Ihem, is not to be doubt- 
ed; but they were rare; the men who voluntarily exiled 
themselves to an unknown coast, and endured there every 
toil and hardship, for conscience' sake, and that they might 
serve God in their own manner, were not likely to set con- 
science at defiance, and make the service of God a mock- 
ery ; they were not likely to be, neither were they, h}7)o- 
crites. I do not know that it would be arrogating too much 
for them to say, that, on the extended surface of the globe, 
there was not a single community of men to be compared 
T\dth them, in the respects of deep religious impressions, and 
an exact performance of moral duty. 



LESSON CXV. 

The same, concluded. 



What i would especially inculcate is, that, estimating as 
impartially as we are able the virtues and defects of our 
forefathers' character, we should endeavour to imitate the 
first, and avoid the last. 

Were they tenderly jealous of their inborn rights, and re- 
solved to maintain them, in spite of the oppressor ? And 
shall we ever be insensible to their value, and part with the 
vigilance which should watch, and the courage which should 
defend them ? Rather let the ashes of our fathers, which 
have been cold so long, warm and quicken in their graves, 
and return irabodied to the surface, and drive away their 
degenerate sons from the soil which their toils and sufferings 
purchased ! 

Rather let the beasts of the wilderness come back to a 
wilderness, and couch for prey in our desolate gardens, and 
bring forth their young in our marts, and howl nightly to 
the moon, amidst the grass-grown ruins of our prostrate 
cities ! Rather let the red sons of the forest reclaim their 
pleasant hunting grounds, and rekindle the council fires 
which once threw their glare upon the eastern water,^ and 
roam over our hills and plains, without crossing a single 
track of the white man ! . 



NATIONAL READER. 217 

I am no advocate for war. I abominate its spirit and its 
cruelties. But to me there appears a wide and essential 
difference between resistance and aggression. It is aggres- 
sion, it is the love of arbitrary domination, it is the insane 
thirst for what the world has too long and too indiscrimi- 
nately called glory, which light up the flames of war and 
devastation. 

Without aggression on the one side, no resistance would be 
roused on the other, and there would be no war. And if 
all aggression was met by determined resistance, then, too, 
there would be no war ; for the spirit of aggression would 
be humbled and repressed. I would that it might be the 
universal principle of our countrymen, and the determina- 
tion of our rulers, never to offer the slightest injury, never 
to commit the least outrage, though it were to obtain terri- 
tory, or fame, or any selfish advantage. 

In this respect I would that the example which was some- 
times set by our forefathers, might be altogether forsaken. 
But let us never forsake their better example of stern re- 
sistance ; let us cherish and perpetuate their lofty senti- 
meats of freedom ; let us tread the soil which they planted 
for us as free as they did, or lie down at once beside them. 

'^ The land we from our fathers had in trust 

We to our children will transmit, or die. 

This is our maxim, this our piety, 

And God and nature sajf that it is just. 

That which we wojild perform in arms, we must ! 

We read the dictate in the infant's eye, 

In the wife's smile, and in the placid sky, 

And at our feet, amid the silent dust 

Of them that were before us." 

Our fathers were pious — eminently so. Let us forever 
venerate and imitate this part of their character. When 
the children of the pilgrims forget that Being, who was the 
pilgrim's Guide and Deliverer ; when the descendants of 
the Puritans cease to acknowledge, and obey, and love that 
Being, for whose service the Puritans forsook all that men 
chiefly love, enduring scorn and reproach, exile and poverty, 
and finding at last a superabundant reward ; when the sons 
of a religious and holy ancestry fall away from its high 
communion, and join themselves to the assemblies of the 
profane ; — they have stained the lustre of their parentage ; 
they have forfeited the dear blessings of their inheritance ; 
and they deserve to be cast out from this fair land, without 
19 



218 NATIONAL READER. 

even a wilderness for their refuge. No ! Let us still keep 
the ark of God in the midst of us ; let us adopt the prayer 
of the wise monarch of Israel, — " The Lord our God be 
with us, as he was with our fathers ; let him not leave us, 
nor forsake us ; that he may incline our hearts unto him, 
to walk in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, 
and his statutes, and his judgements, which he commanded 
our fathers." 

But our fathers were too rigidly austere. It may be thought, 
that, even granting this to be their fault, we are so rapidly 
advancing toward an opposite extreme, that any thing like 
a caution against it is out of season, and superfluous. And 
yet I see not why the notice of every fault should not be 
accompanied with a corresponding caution. 

That we are in danger of falling into one excess, is a 
reason why we should be most anxiously on our guard at 
the place of exposure ; but it is no reason why another ex- 
cess should not be reprobated, and pointed out with the fin- 
ger of warning. The difficulty is, and the desire and effort 
should be, between these, as well as all other extremes, to 
steer an equal course, and presence a safe medium. 

I acknowledge that luxury, and the blandishments of 
prosperity and wealth, are greatly to be feared ; and if our 
softnesses, and indulgences, and foreign fashions, must, inevi- 
tably, accomplish our seduction, and lead us away from the 
simplicity, honesty, sobriet)^, purity, and manly independence 
of our forefathers, most readily and fervently would I ex- 
claim. Welcome back to the pure old times of the Puritans ! 
welcome back to the strict observances of their strictest 
days ! welcome, thrice welcome, to all their severity, all 
their gloom ! for infinitely better would be hard doctrines 
and dark brows, Jewish Sabbaths, strait garments, formal 
manners, and a harsh guardianship, than dissoluteness and 
effeminacy ; than empty pleasures and shameless debauch- 
ery ; than lolling ease, and pampered pride, and fluttering 
vanity ; than unprincipled, faithless, corrupted rulers, and a 
people unworthy of a more exalted government. 

But is it necessary that we must be either gloomy or cor- 
rupt, either formal or profane, either extravagant in strict- 
ness, or extravagant in dissipation and levity ? Can we not 
so order our habits, and so fix our principles, as not to suf- 
fer the luxuries of our days to choke, and strangle, with 
their rankness,the simple morality of our fathers' days, nor 
permit a reverence for their stiff ^ind inappropriate formali- 



NATIONAL READER. 219 

ties and austerities to overshadow and repress our innocent 
comforts end delights ? 

Let us attempt, at least, to maintain ourselves in so desira- 
ble a medium. Let us endeavour to preserve whatever 
was excellent in the manners and lives of the Puritans, while 
we forsake vv^hat was inconsistent or unreasonable ; and then 
we shall hardly fail to be wiser and happier, and even better, 
than thev were. 



LESSON CXVL 



Extract from the Speech of W. Pitt, Earl of Chatham^ in the 
British Parliament^ January^ 1775. 

My lords — I rise with astonishment to see these papers 
brought to your table at so late a period of this business ; — 
papers, to tell us what ? Why, what all the world knew 
before ; that the Americans, irritated by repeated injuries, 
and stripped of their inborn rights and dearest privileges, 
have resisted, and^entered into associations for the preser- 
vation of their common liberties. 

Had the early situation of the people of Boston been at- 
tended to, things would not have come to this. But the- 
infant complaints of Boston v/ere literally treated like the 
capricious squalls of a child^ Avho, it was said, did not know 
whether it was aggrieved or not. But, full well I knew, at 
that time, that this child, if not redressed, would soon as- 
sume the courage and voice of a vutn. Full well I knew, 
that the sons of ancestorsj^ born under the same free consti- 
tution, and once breathing^he same liberal air, as English- 
men, would resist upon _t£je same principlftS,-^ and on the 
same occasions. ^ * '^ 

What has government done ? They have sent an armed 
force, consisting of seventeen thousand men, to dragoon' the 
Bostonians into what is called their duty ^ and, so far from 
once turning their eyes to the impolicy and destructive con- 
sequence of this scheme, are constantly sending out more 
troops. And we are told, in the language of menace, that, 
if seventeen thousand men won't do, fifty thousand shall. 

It is true, my lords, with this force, they may ravage the 
country, waste and destroy as they march ; but, in the pro- 
gress of fifteen hundred miles, can they occupy the places 



220 NATIONAL READER. i 

they have passed ? Will not a country, which can produce 
thre€ millions of people, wronged and insulted as they are, 
start up, like hydras, in every comer, and gather fresh 
strength from fresh opposition ? Nay, what dependence 
can yo'i have upon the soldiery, the unhappy engines of 
your wrath ? They are Englishmen, who must feel for the 
privileges of Englishmen. Do you think that these men 
can turn their arms against tlieir brethren ? Surely not. 
A victory must be to them a defeat ; and carnage, a sa- 
crifice. 

But it is not merely three millions of people, the pro- 
duce of America, we have to contend with, in this unnatu- 
ral struggle ; many more are on their side, dispersed over 
the face of this wide empire. Every whig in this country 
and in Ireland is with them. Who, then, let me demand, 
has given, and continues to give, this strange and unconsti- 
tutional advice ? I do not mean to level at any one man, 
or any particular set of men ; but, thus much I will venture 
to declare, that, if his majesty continues to hear such coun- 
sellors, he will not only be badly advised, but undone. He 
may continue, indeed, to wear his crown ; but it will not be 
worth his wearing. Robbed of so principal a jewel as Ame- 
rica, it will lose its lustre, and no longer beam that efful- 
gence, which should irradiate the brow of majesty. 

In this alarming crisis, I come, mth this paper in my 
hand, to offer you the best of my experience and advice ; 
which is, that an humble petition be presented to his majes- 
ty, beseeching him, that, in order to open the way towards 
a happy settlement of the dangerous troubles in America, 
it may graciously please him, that immediate orders be given 
to General Gage for removing his majesty's forces from the 
town of Boston. 

And this, my lords, upon the most mature and deliberate 
grounds, is the best advice I can give you, at this juncture. 
Such conduct will convince America that you mean to try 
her cause in the spirit oi freedom and inquiry^ and not in let- 
ters of blood. There is no time to be lost. Every hour is 
big with danger. Perhaps, while I am now speaking, the 
decisive blow is struck, which may involve millions in the 
consequence. And, believe me, the very first drop of blood 
which is shed, will cause a wound which may never be 
healed. 






NATIONAL READER. 221 



LESSON CXVIL 



Extract from the Speech 0/ Patrick Henry, inthe CmtentioH 
of Delegates of Virginia j in Support of his Resolution for 
putting the Colony into a State of Defence, and for arming 
and disciplining a number of Men sufficient for that Purpose : 
~-23d March, 1775. 

Mr. president — It is natural for man to indulge in the 
illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a 
painful truth ; and listen to the song of that syren till she 
transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, en- 
gaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we 
disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, 
see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so 
nearly concern their temporal salvation ? For my part, 
whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to 
know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide 
for it. 

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and 
that is the lamp of -experience. I know of no way of judg^ 
ing of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, 
I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the 
British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes 
with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace them- 
selves and the house ? Is it that insidious smile, with which 
our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir; it 
will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be 
betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious re- 
ception of our petition comports with those warlike prepara- 
tions, which cover our w aters and darken our land. Are fleets 
and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? 
Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that 
force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not 
deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war 
and subjugation — the last arguments to which kings resort. 
I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its 
purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen 
assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain 
any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this' 
accumulation of navies and armies ? No, sir, she has none. 
They are meant for us : they can be meant for no other. 
They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains, 
19* 



^22 NATIONAL READER. 

whicli the British ministry have been so long forging. And 
what have we to oppose to them ? Shall we try argument ? 
Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have 
we any thing new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. 
We have held the subject up in every light of which it is 
capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to 
entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we 
find, which have not been already exhausted ? Let us not, 
I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have 
done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm 
which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have re- 
monstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have prostrated our- 
selves before the throne, and have implored its interposition 
to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia- 
ment. Our petitions have been slighted ; our remonstrances 
have produced additional violence and insult ; our suppli- 
cations have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned, 
with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after 
these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and 
reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If 
we wish to be free ; if we mean to preserve inviolate those 
inestimable privileges, for which we hav,e been so long con- 
tending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble strug- 
gle, in which we have been so long engaged, and which we 
have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious 
object of our contest shall be obtained — we must fight ! — I 
tepeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to 
the God of hosts, is all that is left us. They tell us, sir, 
that we are weak — unable to cope with so formidable an 
adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be 
the next week, or the next year ? Will it be when we are 
totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be station- 
ed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolu- 
tion and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual 
resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the 
delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we 
make a proper use of those means which the God of nature 
hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed 
in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that 
which we possess, are invincible by any force which our 
enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight 
our battles alone. There is a just God, who presides over 
the destinies of natioDs, and who will raise up friends to 



NATIONAL READER. 223 

fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong 
alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, 
sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire 
it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is 
no retreat, but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are 
forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of 
Boston ! The war is inevitable — and let it come ! — I repeat 
it, sir, let it come ! 

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may 
cry, Peace, peace — but there is no peace. The war is ac- 
tually begun ! 

The next gale, that sweeps from the north, will bring to 
our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are 
already in the field ! Why stand we here idle ! What is it 
that gentlemen wish ? what would they have ? Is life so 
dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of 
chains and slavery ? Forbid it. Almighty God. — I know not 
what course others may take, but, as for me, give me liberty 
or give me death ! 



LESSON CXVIIL 



Account of the first hostile Attack upon the American Colonists, 
by the British Troops^ in the War of the Revolution^ at Lex- 
ington and Concord^ Mass. I9th April, 1775. — Botta. 

War being every moment expected, the particular fate of 
the inhabitants of Boston had become the object of general 
solicitude. The garrison was formidable ; the fortifications 
were carried to perfection ; and little hope remained, that this 
city could be v/rested from British domination. Nor could 
the citizens flatter themselves more with the hope of escap- 
ing by sea ; as the port was blockaded by a squadron. 

Thus confined, amidst an irritated soldiery, the Bostoni- 
ans found themselves exposed to endure all the outrages 
to be apprehended from military license. Their city had 
become a close prison, and themselves no better than hos- 
tages in the hands of the British commanders. This. conside- 
ration alone sufficed greatly to impede all civil and military 
operations projected by the Americans. 

Various expedients were suggested, in order to extricate 
the Bostonians from this embarrassing situation ; tvhich, if 



224 NATIONAL READER. 

they evinced no great prudence, certainly demon'strated no 
ordinary obstinacy. Some advised, that all the inhabitants of 
Boston should abandon the city, and take refuge in other 
places, where they should be succoured at the public ex- 
pense : but this design was totally impracticable, since it de- 
pended on General Gage to prevent its execution. 

Others recommended, that a valuation should be made of 
the houses and furniture belonging to the inhabitants ; that 
the city should then be fired ; and that all the losses should 
be reimbursed from the public treasure. After mature de- 
liberation, this project was also pronounced not only very 
difficult, but absolutely impossible to be executed. 

JNIany inhabitants, however, left the city privately, and 
withdrew into the interior of the country ; some, from dis- 
gust at this species of captivity ; others, from fear of the ap- 
proaching hostilities ; and others, finally, from apprehensions 
of being questioned for acts against the government : but a 
great number, also, with a firm resolution, preferred to re- 
main, and brave all consequences whatever. 

The soldiers of the garrison, weary of their long confine- 
ment, desired to sally forth, and drive away these rebels, 
who intercepted their provisions, and for whom they cherish- 
ed so profound a contempt. The inhabitants of Massachu- 
setts, on the other hand, were proudly indignant at this 
opinion of their cowardice, entertained by the soldiers ; and 
panted for an occasion to prove, by a signal vengeance, the 
falsehood of the reproach. 

In the mean time, the news arrived of the king's speech 
at the opening of parliament ; of the resolutions adopted by 
this body; and, finally, of the act by which the inhabitants 
of Massachusetts were declared rebels. All the province 
flew to arms : indignation became fury, — obstinacy, despe- 
ration. All idea of reconciliation had become chimerical : 
necessity stimulated the most timid ; a thirst of vengeance 
fired every breast. The match is lighted, — the materials 
disposed, — the conflagration impends. The children are 
prepared to combat against their fathers ; citizens against 
citizens ; and, as the Americans declared, the friends of 
liberty against its oppressors, — against the founders of ty- 
ranny. 

" In these arms," said they, " in our right hands, are 
placed the hope of safety, the existence of country, the de- 
fence of property, the honour of our wives and daughters. 
With these alone can we repulse a licentious soldiery, pro- 



NATIONAL READER. 225 

tect what man holds dearest upon earth, and, unimpaired, 
transmit our rights to our descendants. The world will 
admire our courage ; all good men will second us with their 
wishes and prayers, and celebrate our names with immortal 
praises. Our memory will become dear to posterity. It 
will be the example, as the hope, of freemen, and the dread 
of tyrants, to the latest ages. It is time that old and con- 
taminated England should be made acquainted with the 
fcnergies of America, in the prime and innocence of her 
youth : it is time she should know how much superior are 
our soldiers, in courage and constancy, to vile mercenaries. 
We must look back no more ! We must conquer, or die ! 
We are placed between altars smoking with the most grate- 
ful incense of glory and gratitude, on the one part, and blocks 
and dungeons on the other. Let each, then, rise, and gird* 
himself for the coBibat.| The dearest interests of this world 
command it : our most holy religion enjoins it : that God, 
who eternally rewards the virtuous, and punishes the wick- 
ed, ordains it. Let us accept these happy auguries ; for al- 
ready the mercenary sat'ellltes, sent by wicked ministers to 
reduce this innocent people to extremity, are imprisoned 
wathin the walls of a single city, where hunger emaciates 
them, rage devours them, death consumes them. Let us 
banish every fear, every alarm : fortune smiles upon the ef- 
forts of the brave !" 

By similar discourses, they excited one another, and pre- 
pared themselves for defence. The fatal moment is arrived : 
tiie signal of civil war is given. 

General Gage was informed, that the provincials had 
amassed large quantities of arms and ammunition, in the 
towns of Worcester and Concord; which last is eighteen 
miles distant from the city of Boston. Excited by the loy- 
alists, who had persuaded him that he would find no resist- 
ance, considering the cowardice of the patriots, and, perhaps, 
not imagining that the sword would be drawn so soon, he 
resolved to send a few companies to Concord, in order to 
seize the military stores deposited there, and transport them 
to Boston, or destroy them. 

It was said, also, that he had it in view, by this sudden ex- 
pedition, to get possession of the persons of John Hancock 
and Samuel Adams, two of the most ardent patriot chiefs, 
and the principal directors of the provincial congress, then 

* Pron. gerd, i cum'-bat. 



226 NATIONAL READER. 

assembled in the town of Concord. But, to avoid exciting 
irritationj and the popular tumults, which might have ob- 
structed his design,* he resolved to act with caution, and in 
the shade of mystery. 

Accordingly, he ordered the grenadiers, and several com- 
panies of light infantry, to hold themselves in readiness to 
march out of the city, at the first signal j adding, that it was 
in order to pass review, and execute different manoeuvres 
and military evolutions. The Bostonians entertained suspi- 
cions, and sent to warn Adams and Hancock to be upon 
their guard. The committee of public safety gave directions, 
that the arms and ammunition should be distributed about in 
different places. 

JMean while, General Gage, to proceed with more secrecy, 
commanded a certain number of officers, who had been made 
acquainted with his designs, to go, as if on a party of plea- 
sure, and dine at Cambridge, which is situated very near Bos- 
ton, and upon the road to Concord. It was on the 18th of 
April, in the evening, that these officers dispersed themselves 
here and there upon the road and passages, to intercept the 
couriers! ^^^t might have been despatched to give notice of 
the movement of the troops. 

The governor gave orders that no person should be allow- 
ed to leave the city : nevertheless. Dr. Warren, one of 
the most active patriots, had timely intimation of the 
scheme, and immediately despatched confidential messen- 
gers; some of wiiom found the roads interdicted by the 
officers that guarded them ; but others made their way, 
unperceived, to Lexington, a town upon the road leading to 
Concord. 

The intelligence was soon divulged ; the people flocked 
together ; the bells, in all parts, were rung, to give the 
alarm ; the continual firing of cannon spread the agitation 
through all the neighbouring country. In the midst of 
this tumultuous scene, at eleven in the evening, a strong 
detachment of grenadiers, and of light infantry, was em- 
barked at Boston, and landed at a place called Phipps's 
Farm, — now, Lechmere^s Point — whence they marched to- 
wards Concord. In this state^of things, the irritation had 
become so intense, thafa spark only was wanting, to produce 
an explosion ; as the event soon proved. 

* Pron. desiae, not dezine. t coo'-ri-ers. 



NATIONAL READER. 227 

LESSON CXIX. 

The same, concluded. 

The troops were under the command of Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Smith, and Major Piteaim, who led the vanguard. The 
militia of Lexington, as the intelligence of the movement 
of this detachment was uncertain, had separated in the 
course of the night. Finally, at five in the morning of the 
19th, advice was received of the near approach of the 
royal troops. 

The provincials that happened to be near, assembled, to 
the number of about seventy, certainly too few to have had 
the intention to engage in combat. The English ap- 
peared, and Major Pitcairn cried in a loud voice, *' Disperse, 
rebels ! lay down your arms, and disperse !" The provin- 
cials did not obey ; upon which he sprung from the ranks, 
discharged a pistol, and, brandishing his sword, ordered his 
soldiers to fire. The provincials retreated ; the English con- 
tinuing their fire, the former faced about to return it. 

Meanwhile, Hancock and Adams retired from danger; 
and it is related, that, while on the march, the latter, enraptur- 
ed with joy, exclaimed, " Oh ! what an ever-glorious morn- 
ing is this !" considering this first effusion of blood as the 
preFude of events, which must secure the happiness of his 
country. 

The soldiers advanced towards Concord. The inhabit- 
ants assembled, and appeared disposed to act upon the de- 
fensive ; but, seeing the numbers of the enemy, they fell 
back, and posted themselves on the bridge, north of the 
town, intending to wait for re-enforcements from the neigh- 
bouring places ; but the light infantry assailed them with fury, 
routed them, and occupied the bridge, whilst the others en- 
tered Concord, and proceeded to the execution of their orders. 

They spiked two pieces of twenty-four pound cannon, 
destroyed their carriages, and a number of wheels for the 
use of the artillery ; threw into the river and into wells five 
hundred pounds of bullets ; and wasted a quantity of flour, 
deposited there by the provincials. These were the arms 
and provisions which gave the first occasion to a long and 
cruel war ! 

But the expedition was not yet terminated : the minute- 
men arrived, and the forces of the provincials were increased 



228 NATIONAL READER. 

by continual accessions from every quarter. The ligbt in- 
fantry, who scoured the country above Concord, were obliged 
to retreat, and, on entering the town, a hot skirmish ensued. 
A great number were killed on both sides. 

The light infantry having joined the main body of the de- 
tachment, the English retreated precipitately towards Lexing- 
ton. Already the whole country had risen in arms, and the 
militia from all parts flew to the succour of their friends. Be- 
fore the British detachment had arrived at Lexington, its rear 
guard and flanks suffered great annoyance from the provin- 
cials, who, posted behind the trees, walls, and frequent 
hedges, kept up a brisk fire, which the enemy could not return. 
The soldiers of the king found themselves in a most perilous 
situation. 

General Gage, apprehensive of the event, had despatched, 
in haste, under the command of Lord Percy, a re-enforcement 
of sixteen companies, with some marines,* and two field 
pieces. This corps! arrived very opportunely at Lexington, 
at the moment when t|^e royal troops entered the town from 
the other side, pursued with fury by the provincial militia. 

It appears highly probable, that, without this re-enforce- 
ment, they would have been all cut to pieces, or made pri- 
soners : their strength was exhausted, as well as their 
ammunition. After making a considerable halt at Lexing- 
ton, they renewed their march towards Boston, the number 
of the provincials increasing every moment, although the 
rear guard of the English was less molested, on account of 
the two field pieces, which repressed the impetuosity of the 
Americans. But the flanks of the column remained ex- 
posed to a very destructive fire, which assailed them from 
all the points that were adapted to serve as coverts. 

The royalists were also annoyed by the heat, which was 
excessive, and by a violent wind, which blew a thick dust 
in their eyes. The enemy's scouts, adding to their natural 
celerity a perfect knowledge of the country, came up unex- 
pectedly through cross roads, and galled the English severe- 
ly, taking aim especially at the officers, who, perceiving it, 
kept much on their guard. 

Finally, after a march of incredible fatigue, and a conside- 
rable loss of men, the English, overwhelmed with lassitude, 
arrived at sun-set in Charlestown. Independently of the 
combat they had sustained, the ground they had measured 

^- Pron. mareens. t cos-e. 



I NATIONAL READER. 229 

f that day was above five and thirty miles. The day follow- 
ing* they crossed over to Boston. 
! Such was the affair of Lexington, the first action which 
1 opened the civil war. The English soldiers, and especial- 
j }y their officers, were filled with indignation at the fortune 
! of the day : they could not endure, that an undisciplined 
I multitude, — that a flock of Yankees, as they contemptuously 
I named the Americans, — should not only have maintained their 
j ground against them, but even forced them to show their 
I backs, and take refuge behind the walls of a city. 
i The provincials, on the contrary, felt their courage im- 
measurably increased, since they had obtained a proof, that 
these famous troops were not invincible ; and had made so 
fortunate an essay of the goodness of their arms. 



LESSON CXX. 



Extract of an Oration delivered at Concord^ Mass. 19 th April, 
1825, in Commemoration of the Battles of Lexington and 
Concord^ \9th April, 1775. — E. Everett. 

This is a proud anniversary for our neighbourhood. We 
have cause for honest complacency, that, when the distant 
citizen of our own republic, when the stranger from foreign 
lands, inquires for the spots where the noble blood of the 
revolution began to flow, where the first battle of that great 
and glorious contest was fought, he is guided through the 
villages of Middlesex, to the plains of Lexington and Con- 
cord. It is a commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as 
they pass, v/ill add dignity and interest ; till the names of 
L&xington and Concord, in the annals of freedom, will stand 
by the side of the most honourable names in Roman or 
Grecian story. 

It was one of those great days, one of those elemental 
occasions in the world's aiffairs, when the people rise, and 
act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had 
been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce 
any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted, 
whether there was an efficient order given, the whole day, to 
any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the peo- 
ple, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, starts 
ing from their beds at midnight, from their firesides, and 
20 



230 NATIONAL READER. 

from their fields, to take their own cause icto their own 
hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sublime ; 
^when the want of every thing is fully made up by the spirit 
of the cause j and the soul within stands in place of disci- 
pline, organization, resources. In the prodigious efforts of 
a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendor of their ar- 
ray, there is something revolting to the reflective mind. 
The ranks are filled with the desperate, the mercenary, the 
depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, 
merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the 
unqualified despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and 
remorse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, are 
sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irration- 
al monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say 
who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people, on 
whom it is let loose, or the still more wretched people, whose 
substance has been sucked out, to nourish it into strength 
and fury. But, in the efforts of the people, of the people 
struggling for their rights, moving not in organized, disci- 
plined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, 
and heart for heart, — though I like not war, nor any of its 
works, — there is something glorious. They can then move 
forward without orders, act together without combination, 
and brave the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments 
to cover, or walls to shield them. No dissolute camp has 
worn off, from the feelings of the youthful soldier, the fresh- 
ness of that home, where his mother and his sisters sit wait- 
ing, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news 
from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror 
has turned the veteran's heart into marble ; their valour 
springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference 
to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to the life 
of others. But in the strength and spirit of the cause alone 
they act, they contend, they bleed. In this, they conquer. 
The people always conquer. They always must conquer. 
Armies may be defeated ; kings may be overthrown, and 
new dy nasties imposed, by foreigMfarms, on an ignorant and 
slavish race, that care not in what language the covenant 
of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of 
their barter and sale is made out. But the people never in- 
yade ; and when they rise against the invader, are never 
subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to 
the mountains. Steep rocks, and everlasting hills, are their 
castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and 



NATIONAL READER. 231 

nature, — God, is their allj^ Now he overwhelms the hosts 
of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand ; 
now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere of polar 
snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; he puts 
a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their 
leaders ; and he never gave, and he never v.ill give, a full 
and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved to 
be free. 



LESSON CXXL 
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. — Gray. 

The curfew tolls — ^^the knell of parting day ; — 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way^ 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight^ 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



232 NATIONAL READER. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods^ beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, the inevitable hour; — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted Vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with tlie spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the sou!. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene. 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full ma,ny a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 



NATIONAL READER. 238 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;-— 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; . 

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame ; 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial, still erected nigh. 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — > 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies : 
Somre pious drops the closing eye requires : 

Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
20 * 



234 NATIONAU READER. 

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,^ 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

*^ Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove j 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, wasiie : 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne* 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay. 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

The Epitaph. 

Here' rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 

And Melancholy marked him for her own. . 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : — 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; 

He gained from heaven — Hwas all he wished — a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — 

(There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



1 



I^TATIONAL READER. 233^ 

LESSON CXXII. 

The Grave of Korner. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

Charles Theodore Korner, the youn^ German poet and soldier, was killed 
in a skirmish with a detachment of Frencti troops, on the 26th of August, 1813, 
a few hours after the composition of his most popular piece, " The Sword Song." 
He was buried under a beautiful oak, in a recess oi wliich he had frequently 

' deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The 
monument erected to his memory, beneath this tree, is of cast iron, and the upper 
part is wrought into a hjre and sword, a favourite emblem of KOrner's, horn 
which one ot his works had been entitled. ,. i /• • z- ^ i • 

Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his 
loss, having survived him only long enough to complete tiis portrait, and a draw- 
mg of his burial place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his 
own lines, " Forget not tlie faithful dead." 

Green wave the oak forever o'er thy rest ! 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, - 
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 

Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest : 
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured, 
Thou of the lyre and sword ! 

Rest bard ! rest, soldier ! 13y ttie lainer . u^uv. 
^ Here shall the' child of after-years be led, 
With his wreath-oflfering silently to stand 

In the hushed presence of the glorious dead^ 
Soldier and bard !-For thou thy path hast trod 
With Freedom and with trOd. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite r 

On % crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee, 

And^wiL true hearts, thy brethren of Ae fight 

Wept as they vailed their drooping banners oer ttiee , 

And the deep guns, with rolling peal, gave token 
That lyre and sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb !— A lowlier bed 
Is hers the gentle girl beside thee lymg, 

The gentle Jrl^ that bowed her fair young head, 
Wfen thfu wert gone, in silent -rrow dy^S; , 

Brother !-true friend !-the tender and the brave . 
She pined to share thy grave. 

preme Justice for Uie final deliverance pf Germany. 



►236 NATIONAL READER. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — ^but for her,— 
To whom the wide earth held that only spot, — 

She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not 

Thou hast thine oak — ^thy tr5phy — what hath she ? 
Her own blessed place by thee. 

It w as thy spirit, brother ! which had made 

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played. 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two ! — and, when that spirit passed, 
Wo for the one, the last ! 

Wo : — yet not long : — she lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast ; — 

Once, once again, to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! — ^its living light was o'er ; 
It answered hers no more ! 

'7^)jp pnrl-l> crfci-rxT ^Jl^-r^t ^■^lv<»x>. *Iij v\^icc vltpai Ic; J, 

The home too lonely whence thy step had fled : 
What, then, was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? 

Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! 
Softly she perished. Be the flower deplored 
Here, with the lyre and sword. 

Have ye not met ere now ? So let those trust, 
That meet for moments but to part for years. 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears ' 

Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell . 
Lyre, sword, and flower, — ^farewell ! 



LESSON CXXIIL 

God^s first Temples—A Hymn. — Bryant. 

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 



NATIONAL READER. 237 

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 

The souud of anthems,-^iii the darkling wood, 

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 

And supplication. For his simple heart 

Might not resist the sacred influences, 

That, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, 

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless Power 

And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, Vvhy 

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 

Offer one hymn ; thrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow. 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood, 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen 
No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 
Encounter; no fantastic cannings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou iill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run alons the summits of these trees 



238 NATIONAL READER. 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 

Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thtu hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem 

Almost annihilated-^not a prince. 

In all the proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest ilower, 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me, when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy cremation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die : but see, again. 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth — 
In all its beautiful forms, i These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall lie. i^Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his (\rph pTiPTnv "npofli • yr^a <.«n+r. v;,,^r.x^lf 



NATIONAL READER. 239 

There have been holy men, who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; and there have been holy men, 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink, 
And tremble, and are still. God ! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
With all the waters of the firmament. 
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities ; — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
0, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate. 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
And, to the beautiful order of thy works, 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



LESSON CXXIY. 
Hymn of Nature. — Peabody. 

God of the earth's extended plains ! 

The dark green fields contented lie : 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might com'mune with the sky 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the vale below. 
Where shaded fountains send their streams, 

With joyous music in their flovr. 



240 NATIONAL READER. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
Till the fierce tnimpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. 

God of the forest's solemn shade ! 

The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
But more majestic far they stand, 

When, side by side, their ranks they form. 
To wave on high their plumes of green, 

And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air ! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow. 
Or, gathering in their angry might, 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 

Suspended on the rainbow's rings ; 
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, 

Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above ! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 

Or evening's golden shower of ligkt. 
For every fire that fronts the sun. 

And every spark that walks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven, 

Were kindled at tliy burning throne. 



NATIONAL READER. 24.1 

God of the world ! the hour must come, 

And nature's self to dust return ! 
Her crumbling altars must decay ! 

Her incense fires shall cease to burn ! 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow ; 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 



LESSON CXXV. 
Lines on revisiting the Country. — Bryant. 

I STAND upon my native hills again, 

Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, 
With garniture of waving grass and grain, 

Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie ; 
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
And ever-restless steps of one, who now 

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year : 
There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 

As breaks the varied scene upon her sight. 

Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light : 

For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
To gaze upon the mountains ; to behold, 

With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, 
And clouds along the blue abysses rolled ; 

To love the song of waters, and to hear 

The melody of winds with charmed ear. 

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, 

Its horrid sounds and its polluted air ; 
And, where the season's milder fervours beat. 

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
The song of bird and sound of running stream, 
Have come awhile to wander and to dream. 
21 



242 NATIONAL READER. 

Ay, flame tliy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen ; 

The maize leaf and the maple bough but take 
From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green ; 

The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 

Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. 

The mountain wind — most spiritual thing of all 
The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry time, 

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
He seems the breath of a celestial clime, — 

As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 

Health and refreshment on the world below. 



LESSON CXXVI. 

Lines on a Bee-Hive. — Monthly Repository. 

Ye musical hounds of the fairy king, 

Who hunt for the golden dew. 
Who track for your game the green coverts of spring, 
Till the echoes, that lurk in the flower-bells, ring 

With the peal of your elfin crew ! , 

i 
How joyous your life, if its pleasures ye knew, 

Singing ever from bloom to bloom ! 
Ye wander the summer year's paradise through, 
The souls of the flowers are the viands for you, 

And the air that you breathe perfume. 

But unenvied your joys, while the richest you miss, 

And before you no brighter life lies : 
Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, 
When the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss, 

May be pearls in the crown of the skies l,^ 



LESSON CXXVIL 



Account of the Battle of Bunker'' s Hilly 11 th June, 1775. — 

BOTTA. 

The succours that the British expected from England 
had arrived at Boston, and, with the garrison, formed an 



NATIONAL READER. 243 

army of from ten to twelve thousand men, — all excellent 
troops. Three distinguished generals, Howe, Clinton, and 
Burgoyne, were at the head of these re-enforcements. Great 
events were looked for on^oth sides. 

The English were inflamed with desire to wash out the 
Stain of Lexington : they could not endure the idea, that 
the Americans had seen them fly : it galled them to think, 
that the soldiers of the British king, renowned for their 
brilliant exploits, were now closely imprisoned within the 
walls of a city. They were desirous, at any price, of prov- 
ing that their vaunted superiority over the herds of American 
militia, was not a vain chimera. 

Above all, they ardently desired to terminate, by some de- 
cisive stroke, this ignominious war; and thus satisfy, at 
once, their own glory, the expectations of their country, the 
orders, the desi;es, and the promises, of the ministers. But 
victory was exacted of them still more imperiously by the 
scarcity of food, which every day became more alarming ; 
for, if they must sacrifice their lives, they chose rather to 
perish by the sword than by famine. The Americans, on 
their part, were not less eager for the hour of combat to ar- 
rive : their preceding successes had stimulated their courage, 
and promised them new triumphs. 

In this state of things, the English generals deliberated 
maturely upon the most expedient mode of extricating them- 
selves from this difficult position, and placing themselves 
more at large in the country. # * * * 

Accordingly, they directed their views towards the pe- 
ninsula and neck of Charlestown. The American generals 
had immediate notice of it, and resolved to exert their most 
strenuous endeavours to defeat this new project of the ene- 
my. Nothing was better suited to such a purpose, than to 
fortify diligently the heights of Bunker's Hill, which com- 
manded the whole extent of the peninsula of Charlestown. 
Orders were, therefore, given to Colonel William Prescott, 
to occupy them with a detachment of a thousand men, and 
to intrench himself there by the rules of art. 

But here an error was committed, which placed the gar- 
rison of Boston in very imminent danger, and reduced the 
two parties to the necessity of coming to action immediate- 
ly. Whether he was deceived by the resemblance of name, 
or from some other motive unknown, Colonel Prescott, in- 
stead of repairing to Bunker's Hill, to fortify himself there, 
advanced farther on in the peninsula, and immediately com- 



244 NATIONAL READER. 

menced his intrenchments upon the summit of Breed's Hill, 
another eminence, which overlooks Charlestown, from the 
north-east, and is situated towards the extremity of the pe- 
ninsula, nearer to Boston. 

The works were pushed mth so much ardour, that, the 
following morning, the 17th of June, by day-break, the 
Americans had already constructed a square redoubt, capable 
of affording them some shelter fiom the enemy's fire. The 
labour had been conducted mth such silence, that the Eng- 
lish had no suspicion of what was passing. It was about 
four in the morning, when the captain of a ship of war first 
perceived it, and began to play his artillery. The report 
of the cannon attracted a multitude of spectators to the 
shore. 

The English generals doubted the testimony of their 
senses. Meanwhile, it appeared important to dislodge the 
provincials, or at least to prevent them from completing the 
fortifications commenced : for, as the height of Breed's Hill 
absolutely commands Boston, the city was no longer tena- 
ble, if the Americans erected a battery upon this eminence. 

The English, therefore, opened a general fire of artillery 
from the city, the fleet, and the floating batteries stationed 
around the peninsula of Boston. It hailed a tempest of 
bombs and balls upon the works of the Americans : they 
were especially incommoded by the fire of a battery planted 
upon an eminence named Copp's Hill, which, situated with- 
in the city, overlooks Charlestown from the south, and is 
but three fourths of a mile distant from Breed's Hill. 

But all this was without eff'ect. The Americans continu- 
ed to work with unshaken constancy ; and, by nOon, they 
had much advanced a trench, which descended from the re- 
doubt to the foot of the hill, and almost to the bank of 
Mystic River. The fury of the enemy's artillery, it is true, 
had prevented them from carrying it to perfection. 

In this conjuncture, there remained no alternative for the 
English generals, but to drive the Americans, by dint of 
force, from this formidable position. This resolution was 
taken without hesitation ; and it was followed by the action 
of Breed's Hill, known also by the name of Bunker's Hill ; 
much renowned for the intrepidity, not to say the temerity, 
of the two parties ; for the number of the dead and wound- 
ed ; and for the effect it produced upon the opinions of men, 
in regard to the valour of the Americans, and the probable 
issue of the whole war. 



NATIONAL READER. 245 

The right wing of the Americans was flanked by the 
houses of Charlestown, which they occupied ; and the part 
of this wing, which was connected with the main body, was 
defended by the redoubt erected upon Breed's Hill. The 
centre, and the left wing, formed themselves behind the 
trench, which, following the declivity of the hill, extended 
towards, but without reaching, Mystic River. 

The American officers, observing that the weakest part 
of their line was precisely this extremity of the left wing, — • 
for the trench not extending to the river, and the land in 
this place being smooth and nearly level, there was danger 
of that wing's being turned, and attacked in the rear, — ■ 
caused the passage, between the extreme left and the river, 
to be obstructed, by setting down two parallel palisades, or 
ranges of fence, and filling up the space between them with 
new-mown grass. 

The troops of Massachusetts occupied Charlestown, the 
redoubt, and a part of the trench ; those of Connecticut, com- 
manded by Captain Nolten, and those of New Hampshire, 
under Colonel Starke, the rest of the trench. A few mo- 
ments before the action commenced, Doctor Warren, — a 
man of great authority, and a zealous patriot, — who had been 
appointed general, arrived with some re-enforcements. 
General Pomeroy made his appearance at the same time. 
The first joined the troops of his own province, Massa- 
chusetts ; the second took command of those from Connecti- 
cut. General Putnam directed in chief, and held himself 
ready to repair to any point where his presence should be 
most wanted. 

The Americans had no cavalry. Their artillery, W'ithout 
being very numerous, was, nevertheless, competent. They 
wanted not for muskets ; but the greater part of these were 
without bayonets. Their sharp-shooters, for want of rifles, 
were obliged to use common firelocks ; but as marksmen 
they had no equals. Such w^ere the means of the Ameri- 
cans ; but their hope was great, and they were all impa- 
tient for the signal of combat. 

Between mid-day and one o'clock, the heat being intense, 
all was in motion in the British camp. A multitude of sloops 
^nd boats, filled with soldiers, left the shore of Boston, and 
stood for Charlestown : they landed at Moreton's Point, 
about half a mile south-east of the summit of Breed's 
Hill, without meeting resistance ; as the .ships of war and 
armed vessels eflectually protected the debarkation by the 



246 NATIONAL READER. 

fire of their artillery, which forced the enemy to keep withia 
his intrenchments. 

This corps consisted of ten companies of grenadiers, as 
many of light infantry, and a proportionate artillery; the whole 
under the command of Major-general Howe and Brigadier- 
general Pig'ot. The troops, on landing, began to display, 
the light infantry upon the right, the grenadiers upon the 
left : — but, having observed the strength of the position, and 
the good countenance of the Americans, General Howe 
made a halt, and sent for a re-enforcement. 



LESSON CXXVHL 

The same, concluded. 



On being re-enforced, the English formed themselves in 
two columns. Their plan was, that the left wing, under 
General Pigot, should attack the rebels in Charlestown, 
while the centre should assault the redoubt, and the right 
wing, consisting of light infantry, force the passage near 
the River Mystic, and thus assail the Americans in flank and 
rear ; which would have given the English a complete vic- 
tory. It appears, also, that General Gage had formed the 
design of setting fire to Charlestown, when evacuated by 
the enenay, in order that the corps destined to assail the 
redoubt, thus protected by the fiame and smoke, might be 
less exposed to tlie fire of the provincials. 

The dispositions having all been completed, the English 
put themselves in motion. The provincials that were sta- 
tioned to defend Charlestown, fearing lest the assailants 
should penetrate between this town and the redoubt, and 
cut them off from the rest of the array, retreated. The left 
wing of the English army immediately entered the town, 
and fired the buildings : as they were of wood, in a moment 
the combustion became general. 

The centre of the British force continued a slow march 
against the redoubt and trench ; halting, from time to time, 
for the artillery to come up, and act with some effect, pre- 
vious to the assault. The flames and smoke of Charlestown 
were of no use to them, as the wind turned them in a con- 
trary direction. Their gradual advance, and the extreme 
clearness of the air, permitted the Americans to level their 



NATIONAL READER. 247 

muskets. They, however, suffered the enemy to approach, 
before they commenced their fire ; and waited for the as- 
sault in profound tranquillity. 

It would be difficult to paint the scene of terror present- 
ed by the actual circumstances ; — a large town, all enve- 
loped in flames, which, excited by a violent wind, rose to an 
immense height, and spread every moment more and more ; — 
an innumerable multitude, rushing from all parts, to witness 
so unusual a spectacle, and see the issue of the sanguinary 
conflict that was about to commence ; — the Bostonians, and 
soldiers of the garrison, not in actual service, mounted upon 
the spires, upon the roofs, and upon the heights ; — and the 
hills, and circumjacent fields, from which the dread arena 
could be viewed in safety, covered with swarms of spec- 
tators of every rank, and age, and sex ; each agitated by fear 
or hope, according to the party he espoused. 

The English having advanced within reach of musketry, 
the Americans showered upon them a volley of bullets. 
This terrible fire was so well supported, and so well directed, 
that the ranks of the assailants were soon thinned and bro- 
ken : they retired in disorder to the place of their landing : 
some threw themselves precipitately into the boats. 

The field of battle was covered with the slain. The offi- 
cers were seen running hither and thither, with promises, 
with exhortations, and with menaces, attempting to rally 
the soldiers, and inspirit them for a second attack. Finally, 
after the most painful efl"orts, they resumed their ranks, and 
marched up to the enemy. The Americans reserved their 
fire, as before, until their approach, and received them with 
the same deluge of balls. The English, overwhelmed and 
routed, again fled to the shore. 

In this perilous moment. General Howe remained for some 
time alone upon the field of battle : all the officers who 
surrounded him were killed or wounded. It is related, that, 
at this critical conjuncture, upon which depended the issue 
of the day. General Clinton, who, from Copp's Hill, exa- 
mined all the movements, on seeing the destruction of his 
troops, immediately resolved to fly to their succour. 

This experienced commander, by an able movement, re- 
established order ; and, seconded by the offi-cers, who felt 
all the importance of success, to English honour and the 
course of events, he led the troops to a third attack. It was 
directed against the redoubt, at three several points. 

The artillery of the ships not only prevented all re-enforce- 



248 NATIONAL READER. 

ments from coming to tlie Americans by the isthmus of 
Charlestown, but even uncovered and swept the interior 
of the trench, which was battered in front at the same time. 
The ammunition of the Americans was nearly exhausted, 
and they could have no hopes of a recruit. Their fire must, 
of necessity, languish. 

Meanwhile, the English had advanced to the foot of the 
redoubt. The provincials, destitute of bayonets, defended 
themselves valiantly with the butt-ends of their muskets. 
But, the redoubt being already full of enemies, the American 
general gave the signal of retreat, and drew off his men. 

While the left w ing and centre of the English army were 
thus engaged, the light infantry had impetuously attacked 
the palisades, which the provincials had erected, in haste, 
upon the bank of the River Mystic. On each side the com- 
bat was obstinate ; and, if the assault was furious, the re- 
sistance was not feeble. 

In spite of all the efforts of the royal troops, the provin- 
cials still maintained the battle in this part ; and had no 
thoughts of retiring, until they saw the redoubt and upper 
part of the trench in the power of the enemy. Their re- 
treat was executed with an order not to have been expect- 
ed from new-levied soldiers. 

This strenuous resistance of the left w4ng of the Ameri- 
can army, was, in effect, the salvation of the rest ; for, if it 
had given ground but a few instants sooner, the enemy's 
light infantry would have taken the main body and right 
wing in the rear, and their situation would have been hope- 
less. But the Americans had not yet reached the term 
of their toils and dangers. The only way that remained of 
retreat, was by the isthmus of Charlestown, and the Eng- 
lish had placed there a ship of war and two floating batte- 
ries, the balls of which raked every part of it. The Ame- 
ricans, however, issued from the peninsula without any con- 
siderable loss. * * * * 

The possession of the peninsula of Charlestown was much 
less useful than prejudicial to the royalists. Their army 
was not sufficiently numerous to guard, conveniently, all 
the posts of the city and of the peninsula. The fatigues 
of the soldiers multiplied in an excessive manner ; and, added 
to the heat of the season, which was extreme, they generat- 
ed numerous and severe maladies, which paralyzed the 
movements of the army, and enfeebled it from day to day. 
The greater part of the wounds became mortal, from the in- 
fluence of the climate, and the want of proper food- 



NATIONAL READER. 249 

Thus, besides the honour of having conquered the field 
of battle, the victors gathered no real fruit from this action; 
and, if its effects be considered, upon the opinion of other 
nations, and even of their own, as also upon the force of 
the army, it was even of serious detriment. 

In the American camp, on the contrary, provisions of 
every sort w ere in abundance, and, the troops being accus- 
tomed to the climate, the greater part of the w^ounded were 
eventually cured : their minds w^ere animated wdth the new 
ardour of vengeance, and the blood they had lost exacted a 
plenary expiation. These dispositions were fortified not a 
little by the firing of Charlestown, which, from a flourish- 
ing town, of signal commercial importance, was thus reduc- 
ed to a heap of ashes and of ruins. The Americans could 
never turn their eyes in this direction, without a thrill of 
indignation, and without execrating the European soldiers. 

But the loss they felt the most sensibly was that of Ge- 
neral Warren. He was one of those men, who are more 
attached to liberty than to existence ; but not more ardently 
the friend of freedom, than a foe to avarice and ambition. 
He was endowed with a solid judgement, a happy genius, 
and a brilliant eloquence. In all private affairs, his opinion 
w^as reputed authority, and in all public counsels, a decision. 

Friends and enemies, equally knowing his fidelity and 
rectitude in all things, reposed in him a coniidence without 
limits. Opposed to the w icked, without hatred ; propitious 
to the good, without adulation ; affable, courteous, and hu- 
mane, towards each ; — he was beloved, with reverence, by 
all, and respected by envy itself. 

Though in his person somewhat spare, his figure was pe- 
culiarly agreeable. He mourned, at this epoch, the recent 
loss of a wife, by whom he was tenderly beloved, and whom 
he cherished wdth reciprocal affection. In dying so glori- 
ously for his country, on this memorable day, he left several 
orphans still in childhood ; but a grateful country assumed 
the care of their education. 

Thus w^as lost to the state, and to his family, in so important 
a crisis, and in the vigour of his days, a man equally qualified 
to excel in council or in the field. As for ourselves, faithful 
to the purpose of history, which dispenses praise to the good 
and blame to the perverse, we have not been willing that 
this virtuous and valiant American should be deprived, 
among posterity, of that honourable remembrance so right- 
fully due to his eminent qualities. 



250 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON CXXIX. 

Warren^s Address to the American Soldiers, before the Battle 
of Bunker'' s Hill. — Original. 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ! 
Hear it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel I 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail ? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may — and die we must : — 

But, O, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head,* 

Of his deeds to tell ! 



LESSON CXXX. 



Extract from an Address at the Laying of the Corner Stone of 
the Bunker Hill Monument, \lth June 1825. — D. Webster. 

The great event in the history of the continent, which 
we are now met here to commemorate ; that prodigy of 

* On the 17th of Jiuie, 1825, half a century from the day of the battle, thecor- 
cer stone of a granite monument was laid ou the ground where Warren fell. 



NATIONAL READER. 251 

modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the 
world, is the American revolution. In a day of extraor- 
dinary prosperity and happiness, of high national honour, dis- 
tinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, 
by our love of country, by our admiration of exalted charac- 
ter, by our gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 

The society, whose organ I am, was formed for the pur- 
pose of rearing some honourable and durable monument to 
the memory of the early friends of American independence. 
They have thought, that, for this object, no time could be 
more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful 
period ; that no place could claim preference over this 
memorable spot ; and that no day could be more auspicious 
to the undertaking, than the anniversary of the battle which 
was here fought. The foundation of that monument we 
have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, 
with prayers to almighty God for his blessing, and in the 
midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. 
We trust it will be prosecuted ; and that, springing from a 
broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity and una- 
dorned grandeur, it may remain, ?^ long as Heaven permits 
the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events 
in memory of which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those 
who have raised it. 

We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is 
most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of man- 
kind. We know, that, if we could cause this structure to 
ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced 
them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, 
"\vhich, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over 
the earth, and which history charges itself with making 
known to all future times. We know, that no inscription, 
on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry 
information of the events we commemorate where it has 
not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not 
outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, 
can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edi- 
fice, to show our own deep sense of the value and impor- 
tance of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by pre- 
senting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive 
similar sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the 
principles of the revolution. Human beings are composed 
not of reason only, but of imagination, also, and sentiment ; 
and that is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appro- 



252 NATIONAL READER. 

priated to the purpose of giving right direction to senti- 
ments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. 
Let it not be supposed, that our object is to perpetuate na- 
tional hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It 
is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the 
spirit of national independence, and we wish that the light 
of peace may rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of 
our conviction of that unmeasured benefit, w^hich has been 
conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences, 
which have been produced, by the same events, on the ge- 
neral interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, to 
mark a spot, which must forever be dear to us and our pos- 
terity. We wish, that whosoever, in all coming time, shall 
turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undis- 
tinguished, where the first great battle of the revolution 
was fought. We wish, that this structure may proclaim the 
magnitude and importance of that event, to every class and 
every age. We wish, that infancy may learn the purpose of 
its erection from maternal lips, and that weary and withered 
age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections 
which it suggests. We wish, that labour may look up here, 
and be proud in the midst of its toil. We wish, that, in 
those days of disaster, which, as they come on all nations, 
must be expected to come on us also, desponding patriotism 
may turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured that the foun- 
dations of our national power still stand strong. We wish, 
that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed 
spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contri- 
bute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of de- 
pendence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last 
object on the sight of him who leaves his native shore, and 
the first to gladden his who revisits it, may be something 
which shall remind him of the liberty and the glory of his 
country. Let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming ; let 
the earliest light of the morning gild it, and parting day lin- 
ger and play on its summit. 



LESSON CXXXL 



Address to the Survivors of the Bunker Hill Battle, and of the 
Revolutionary Army. — From the same. 

Notwithstanding that I have given but a faint abstract of 
the things which have happened since the day of the battle 



NATIONAL HEADER. 253 

of Bunker Hill, we are but fifty years removed from it ; and 
we now stand here, to enjoy all the blessings of our own 
condition, and to look abroad on the brightened prospects 
of the world, while we hold still among us some of those, 
who were active agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are 
now here, from every quarter of New England, to visit, once 
more, and under circumstances so affecting, — I had almost 
said so overwhelming, — this renowned theatre of their courage 
and patriotism. 

Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a for- 
mer generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out 
your lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are 
now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with 
your brothers and your neighbours, shoulder to shoulder, in 
the stiife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The 
same heavens are indeed over your heads ; the same ocean 
rolls at your feet ; — but all else how changed ! You hear 
now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes 
of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The 
ground strowed with the dead and the dpng ; the impetuous 
charge ; the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to 
repeated assault ; the summoning of all that is manly to re- 
peated resistance ; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly 
bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in 
war and death ; — all these you have witnessed, but you wit- 
ness them no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder 
metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled 
with wives, and children, and countrymen, in distress and 
terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue 
of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of 
its whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet 
you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a 
felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this 
mount,- and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means 
of annoyance to you, but your country's own means of dis- 
tinction and defence. All is peace ; and God has granted 
you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber 
in the grave forever. He has allowed you to behold and 
to partake the reward of your patriotic toils ; and he has al- 
lowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, 
in the name of the present generation, in the name of your 
country, in the name of liberty, to thank you. ***** 

But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us 
to confine our thoughts or our svmpatliies to those fearless 
22 



254 NATIONAL READER. 

spirits who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated 
spot. We have the happiness to rejoice here in the pre- 
sence of a most worthy representation of the survivors of 
the whole revolutionary diTmj. 

Veterans ! you are the remnant of many a well-fought 
field. You bring with you marks of honour from Trenton 
and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and 
Saratoga. Veterans of half a century ! when, in your 
youthful days, you put every thing at hazard in your coun- 
try's cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth 
is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an 
hour like this ! At a period to which you could not reason- 
ably have expected to arrive ; at a moment of national 
prosperity, such as you could never have foreseen ; you are 
now met, here, to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and 
to receive the overfiowings of a universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me, that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive 
that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The 
images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, 
throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and 
I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon 
your declining years, and bless them ! And, when you shall 
here have exchanged your embraces ; when you shall once 
more have pressed the hands which have been so often ex- 
tended to give succour in adversity, or grasped in the exul- 
tation of victory ; then look abroad into this lovely land, 
which your young valour defended, and mark the happiness 
with which it is filled ; yea, look abroad into the whole 
earth, and see what a name you have contributed to give to 
your country, and what a praise you have added to freedom, 
and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude, which 
beam upon your last days from the improved condition of 
mankind. 



LESSON CXXXIL 

Hymn for the same Occasion. — Original. 

0, IS not this a holy spot ! 

'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! 
God of our fathers ! is it not 

The holiest spot of all the earth ? 



NATIONAL READER. 255f 

Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; 

The robber roams o'er Shiai now ; 
And those old men, thy seers, abide 

No more on Zion's mournful brow. 

But on this hill thou. Lord, hast dwelt, 

Since round its head the war-cloud curled, 

And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
In prayer and battle for a world. 

Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : 

And we, the children of the brave, 
From the four winds are gathered round, 

To lay our offering on their grave. 

Free as the winds around us blow. 

Free as the waves below us spread, 
We rear a pile, that long shall throw 

Its shadow on their sacred bed. 

But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 

While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : 

Thine ear was bowed to hear their call. 
And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 



LESSON CXXXIII. 

WhaPs Hallowed Giound ? — Campbell.* 

What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallowed ground, where, mourned and missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed : — 
But Where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

* From the New Monthly Magazine for Oct. 1825. 



%56 NATIONAL READER. 



What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! — 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or genii twine, beneath the deep, 

Their coral tomb. 

But, strow his ashes to the wind. 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind. 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that, and welcome War to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space !- 

The colours, planted face to face, 

The charging cheer. 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear : — 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of truth and human weal, 

God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine-~ 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not. 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 



NATIONAL READER. 257 

What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 



LESSON cxxxiy. 



Extract from a Speech of Coumellor Phillips, at a public 
Dinner in Ireland, on his Health being given j together with 
that of Mr. Payne j a young American, 1817. 

The mention of America, sir, has never failed to fill me 
with the most lively emotions. In my earliest infancy, — that 
tender season when impressions, at once the most permanent 
and the most powerful, are likely to be excited, — the story 
of her then recent struggle raised a throb in every heart that 
loved liberty, and wrung a reluctant tribute even from dis- 
comfited oppression. I saw her spurning alike the luxuries 
that would enerVate, and the legions that would intimidate; 
dashing from her lips the poisoned cup of European servi- 
tude ; and, through all the vicissitudes of her protracted 
conflict, displaying a magnanimity that defied misfortune, 
and a moderation that gave new grace to victory. It was 
tlie first vision of my childhood ; it will descend with me to 
the grave. But if, as a man, I venerate the mention of 
America, what must be my feelings towards her as an Irish- 
man ! Never, ! never, while memory remains, can Ire- 
land forget the home of her emigrant, and the asylum of her 
exile. No matter whether their sorrows sprung from the 
errors of enthusiasm, or the realities of sufi'ering ; from fancy 
or infliction : that must be reserved for the scrutiny of those 
whom the lapse of time shall acquit of partiality. It is for 
the men of other ages to investigate and record it ; but, 
surely, it is for the men of every age to hail the hospitality 
that received the shelterless, and love the feeling that be- 
friended the unfortunate. Search creation round, where 
can you find a country that presents so sublime a view, so 
interesting an anticipation ? What noble institutions! What 
a comprehensive policy ! What a wise equalization of every 
|)olitical advantage ! The oppressed of all countries, the 
22* 



258 NATIONAL READER. 

martyr of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic ar- 
rogance or superstitious frenzy, may there find refuge ; his 
industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition ani- 
mated ; with no restraint but those laws which are the same 
to all, and no distinction but that which his merit may 
originate. Who can deny, that the existence of such a 
country presents a subject for human congratulation ! Who 
can deny, that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the 
most rational conjecture ! At the end of the very next cen- 
tury, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a won- 
drous spectacle may she not exhibit ! Who shall say for 
what purpose a mysterious Providence may not have design- 
ed her ! Who shall say, that, when, in its follies or its crimes, 
the old world may have interred all the pride of its power, 
and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find 
its destined renovation in the new! For nfyself, I have no 
doubt of it. I have not the least doubt, that, when our temples 
and our trophies shall have mouldered into dust ; when the 
glories of our name shall be but the legend of tradition, and 
the light of our achievements live only in song ; philosophy 
W'ill rise again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle 
at the urn of her Washington. Is this the vision of a ro- 
mantic fancy ? Is it even improbable ? Is it half so improba- 
ble as the events which, for the last tv/enty years, have 
rolled like successive tides over the surface of the European 
world, each erasing the impression that preceded it ? Thou- 
sands upon thousands, sir, I know there are, who will con- 
sider this supposition as wild and whimsical : but they have 
dwelt, with little reflection, upon the records of the past. 
They have but ill observed the never-ceasing progress of 
national rise* and national ruin. They form their judgement 
on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never con- 
sidering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in for- 
mer days, apparent!}^ as permanent, whose very existence 
has now become the subject of speculation, I had almost said 
of skepticism. I appeal to History ! Tell me, thou reverend 
chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition re- 
alized, can ail the wealth of a universal commerce, can all 
the achievements of successful heroism, or all the esta- 
blishments of this ivorld's wisdom, secure to empire the 
permanency of its possessions ? Alas ! Troy thought so 
once ; yet the land of Priam lives only in song ! Thebes 
thought so once ; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and 
her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intend- 

* Not rize-. 



NATIONAL READER. 259 

ed to commemorate ! So thought Palmyra — where is she ? 
So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan ; 
yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens in- 
sulted by the servile, mindless, and enerVate Ottoman ! In 
his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined 
immortality ; and all its vanities, from the palace to the 
tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression 
of his footsteps ! The days of their glory are as if they had 
never been ; and the island, that was then a speck, rude and 
neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity* of 
their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their 
philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration 
of their bards ! Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, 
that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not, one 
day, be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to be 
what Athens was ! Who shall say, that, when the European 
column shall have mouldered, and the night of barbarism 
obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not emerge 
from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the as- 
cendant !****= 

Sir, it matters very little what immediate spot may 
have been the birth-place| of such a man as Washington. 
No people can claim, no country can appropriate him. 
The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame 
is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it w^as 
the defeat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I 
almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. 
If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when 
the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it clear- 
ed ! how bright, in the brow of the firmament, w^as the 
planet which it revealed to us ! In the production of Wash- 
ington, it does really appear as if Nature was endeavouring to 
improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient 
world w^ere but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of 
the new. Individual instances, no doubt, there were, splen- 
did exemplifications, of some single qualification : Caesar was 
merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient ; but 
it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, 
and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist, to 
exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the pride of every 
model,J and the perfection of every master. J^s a general, 
he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by 
discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he 
* Pron. ti-bic'-we-ty. \ bertlj-place. J Not moddie. 



26a NATIONAL READER. 

enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehen- 
sive system of general advantage ; and such was the wisdom 
of his views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that, to the 
soldier and the statesman, he almost added the character of 
the sage ! A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime 
of blood ; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of trea- 
son ; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country 
called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, 
necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused 
here, history might have doubted what station to assign him ; 
whether at the head of her citizens, or her soldiers, her he- 
roes, or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his 
career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, 
after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, 
and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adora- 
tion of a land he might be almost said to have created ! 

Happy, proud America ! The lightnings of heaven yielded 
to your philosophy ! The temptations of earth could not 
seduce your patriotism ! 



LESSON GXXXV. 

TTie Nature of True Eloquence. — D, Webster. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong 
passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than 
it is connected A\ith high intellectual and moral endow- 
ments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities 
which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does 
not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. La- 
bour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 
Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but 
they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the 
subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- 
pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it ; 
they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the 
outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 
force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- 
gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wivesj 



NATIONAL READER. 261 

their children, and their country, hang on the decision of 
the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is 
vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius 
itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of 
higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, self- 
devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running 
the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, 
the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from 
the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man 
onward, right onward, to his object — this, this is eloquence'; 
or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all elo- 
quence, — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 



LESSON CXXXVL 



Extract from a Discourse^ in Commemoration of the Lives and 
Services of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, delivered in 
Faneuil Hall, Boston, 2d August, 1826. — By Daniel 
Webster. 

In July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of 
argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- 
ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to decide, 
whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the parent 
state, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All 
the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this 
decision, and the people looked for it with the most in- 
tense anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never 
were men called to a more important political deliberation. 
If we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, 
no question could be more full of interest ; if we look at it 
now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in 
still greater magnitude. 

Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was 
about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. 
Let us open their doors, and look in upon their delibera- 
tions. Let us survey the anxious and care-worn coun- 
tenances, let us hear the firm-toned voices, of this band of 
patriots. 

Hancock presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of 
those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- 



262 NATIONAL READER. 

dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- 
ing from the declaration. 

' Let us pause ! This step, once taken, cannot be retrac- 
ed. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of 
reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England, we 
shall then be no longer colonies, with charters, and with privi- 
leges ; these will all be forfeited by this act ; and we shall 
be in the condition of other conquered people — at the mercy 
of the conquerors. For ourselves, we may be ready to run 
the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country to that 
leugth ? Is success so probable as to justify it ? Where is 
the military, where the naval power, by which we are* to 
resist the whole strength of the arm of England ? — for she 
will exert that strength to the utmost: Can we rely on 
the constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will they 
not act, as the people of other countries have acted, and, 
wearied with a long war, submit, in the end, to a worse 
oppression ? While we stand on our old ground, and insist 
on redress of grievances, we know we are right, and are 
not answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can be 
imputable to us. But, if we now change our object, carry 
our pretensions farther, and set up for absolute indepen- 
dence, we shall lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall 
no longer be defending what we possess, but struggling for 
something which we never did possess, and which we have 
solemnly and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursu- 
ing, from the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus 
our old ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of op- 
pression, the nations will believe the whole to have been 
mere pretence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but 
as ambitious subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. 
It will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground we have stood 
on so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim inde- 
pendence, and carry on the war for that object, while these 
cities burn, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach with the 
bones of their owners, and these streams run blood. It will 
be upon us, it will be upon us, if, failing to maintain this un- 
seasonable and ill judged declaration, a sterner despotism, 
maintained by military power, shall be established over our 
posterity, when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a 
harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness 
and atoned for our presumption, on the scaffold.' 



:^. 



NATIONAL READER. 263 

LESSON CXXXVIL 

The samCj concluded. 

It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. 
"VVe know his opinions, and we know his character. He 
would commence with his accustomed directness and 
earnestness. 

' Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my 
hand and my heart to this vote ! It is true, indeed, that, in 
the beginning, w^e aimed not at independence. But there's 
a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England 
has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest, for 
our good she has obstinately persisted, till independence is 
now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and 
it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration ? Is 
any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with 
England, which shall leave either safety to the country and 
its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honour ? 
Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair ; is not he, our vene- 
rable colleague near you ; are you not both already the pro- 
scribed and predestined objects of punishment and of ven- 
geance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are 
you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, 
but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to 
carry on, or to give up, the war ? Do we mean to submit to 
the measures of parliament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do 
w^e mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be 
ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden 
down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. We 
never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most 
solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, 
before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, put- 
ting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the 
political hazards of tue times, we promised to adhere to him, 
in every extremity, with our fortunes, and our lives ? I know 
there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general 
conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, 
than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. 
For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved 
you, that George Washington be appointed commander of 
the forces, raised, or to be raised, for defence of American 
liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my 



264 NATIONAL READER. 

tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or wa- 
ver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. 
We must fight it through. And, if the war must go on, why 
put off longer the declaration of independence ? That mea- 
sure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. 
The nations will then treat with us, which they never can 
do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects, in arms 
against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England, her- 
self, will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of in- 
dependence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknow- 
ledge, that her whole conduct towards us has been a course 
of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wound- 
ed by submitting to that course of things which now pre- 
destinates our independence, than by yielding the points in 
controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she 
w^ouid regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would 
feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, 
do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a 
national war ? And, since we must fight it through, why not 
put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, 
if we gain the victory ? 

' If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall 
not fail. The cause w^ill raise up armies ; the cajise will 
create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to 
them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously, 
through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people 
have been found. I know the people of these colonies ; and 
I know, that resistance to British aggression is deep and set- 
tled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colo- 
ny, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but 
'take the lead. Sir, the declaration will inspire the people 
w^th increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war 
for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for 
chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before 
them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will 
breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this de- 
claration at the head of the army; every sword will be 
drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to 
maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. Publish 
it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of 
religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand ^\'ith 
it, or fall with it. Send it to the public hails ; proclaim it 
there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the ene- 
my's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and 



NATIONAL READER. 265 

their sons fall on the field of Bunker Ilill, and m the streets 
of Lexington and Concord, — and the very walls will cry out 
in its support. 

* Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs ; but I see, I 
see clearly, through this day's business. You and I, in- 
deed, may rue it. We may not live to the time, when this 
declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colo- 
nists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the 
scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Hea- 
ven that my country shall require the poor offering of my 
life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sa- 
crifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let 
me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and 
that a free country. 

' But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 
that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and 
it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
pen'sate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. 
We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we 
are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will 
celebrate it, with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, 
and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed 
tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, 
not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and 
of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
judgement approves this measure, and my whole heart is in 
it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in 
this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave 
off, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for 
the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the bless- 
ing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment ; — independence 
7iow ; and independence forever !' 

And so that day shall be honoured, illustrious prophet and 
patriot ! so that day shall be honoured ; and, as often as it 
returns, thy renown shall come along with it ; and the glory 
of thy life, like the day of thy death,* shall not fail from the 
remembrance of men. 

* Both of the distinguished patriots, in commemoration of whose liv^es and ser- 
vices this Discourse was delivered, died on the same day, 4th July 1826; — fifty 
years from the day on which the Declaration of Tndependeme, of which one was 
the author, and the other tlie strenuous and eloquent advocate, was adopted by 
the American Congress. 

23 



266 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON CXXXVIIL 

The School-Boy. — The Amulet. 

' The School-Boy had been rambling all the day,— 
A careless, thoughtless idler, — till the night 
Came on, and warned him homeward : — then he left 
The meadows, where the morning had been passed, 
Chasing the butterfly, and took the road 
To'ward the cottage where his mother dwelt. 
He had her parting blessing, and she watched 
Once more to breathe a welcome to her child, 
Who sauntered lazily — ungrateful boy ! — 
Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth ; 
And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown, 
He passed within the wicket-gate, which led 
Into the village church-yard : — then he paused. 
And earnestly looked round ; for o'er his head 
The gloomy typress waved, and at his feet 
Lay the last bed of many a villager. 

But on again he pressed with quickened step, 
" Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." 
The bat came flapping by ; the ancient church 
Threw its deep shadows o'er the path he trod. 
And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf; 
For now he fancied that all shapeless forms 
Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, 
And motion as if threatening ; while a weight 
Unearthly pressed the satchel and the slate 
He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind 
Played with the feather that adorned his cap. 
And seemed to whisper something horrible. 
The clouds had gathered thickly round the moon; 
But, now and then, her light shone gloriously 
Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves, 
And, in a moment, all was dark again. 

O'ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down, 
And wildly gazed around him, till his eye 
Fell on a stone, on which these warning words 
Were carved : — 



" Time ! thou art flying rapidly; 
But whither art thou flying ''' 



?" 



NATIONAL READER. 2673 



" To the grave — wliicli yours will be- 

I wait not for the dying. 
In early youth you laughed at me, 

And, laughing, passed life' s jao rnipg 
But, in thine age, I laugh at i 

Too late to give thee warni 



's^aprni 



" Death ! thy shadowy form I see, 

The steps of Time pursuing : 
Like him thou comest rapidly : 

What deed must thou be doing ?" 
" Mortal ! my message is for thee : 

Thy chain to earth is rended : 
1 bear thee to eternity : 

Prepare ! thy course is ended !" 



Attentively the fainting boy perused 

The warning lines ; then grew more terrified ; 

For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice 

Repeating them, and telling him of time 

Misspent, of death approaching rapidly, 

And of the dark eternity that followed. 

His fears increased, till on the ground he lay 

Almost bereft of feeling and of sense. 

And there his mother found him : 

From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child, 

Frightened to feel his clammy hands, and hear 

The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came. 

'Twas strange, the influence which that fearful hour 
Had o'er his future life ; for, from that night. 
He was a thoughtful, an industrious boy. 
And still the memory of those warning words 
Bids him reflect, — now that he is a man, 
And writes these feeble lines that others mav. 



LESSON CXXXIX. 

Stanzas addressed to the Greeks. — Anonymous. 

On, on, to the just and glorious strife ! 

With your swords your freedom shielding : 
Nay, resign, if it must be so, even life ; 

But die at least, unyielding. 



268 NATIONAL READER. 

On to the strife ! for 'twere far more meet 
To sink with the foes^ who bay you, 

Than crouch, like dogs, at your tyrants' ieet, 
And smile on the swords that slay you. 

Shall the pagan slaves be masters, then, 
Of the land w^hich your fathers gave you ? 

Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men, 
When your ow^n good swords may save you ? 

No ! let him feel that their arms are strong, — 
That their courage will fail them never, — 

Who strike to repay long years of wrong, 
And bury past shame forever. 

Let him know there are hearts, however bowed 
By the chains which he threw around them, 

That will rise, like a spirit from pall and shroud, 
And cry " wo !" to the slaves who bound them. 

Let him learn how weak is a tyrant's might 
Against liberty's sword contending ; 

And find how the sons of Greece can fight, 
Their freedom and land defending. 

Then on ! then on to the glorious strife ! 

With your swords your country shielding j 
And resign, if it must be so, even life ; 

But die, at least, unyielding. 

Strike ! for the sires who left you free ! 

Strike ! for their sakes who bore you ! 
Strike ! for your homes and liberty. 

And the Heaven you worship o'er you ! 



LESSON CXL. 

The Spanish PatrioVs Song. — Anonymous. 

Hark ! Hear ye the sounds that the winds, on their pinions, 

Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea. 
With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions ? 

'Tis Columbia calls on her sons to be free ! 



NATIONAL READER. 269 

Behold, on yon summits, where Heaven has throned her, 
How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat ; 

With nature's impregnable ramparts around her, 
And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet ! 

In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken, 
While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song, 

From the rock to the valley, re-echo, " Awaken ! 
Awaken, ye hearts, that have slumbered too long !'* 

Yes, despots ! too long did your tyranny hold us. 
In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known ; 

Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us 
Were forged by the fears of its captives alone. 

That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing. 

Despised as detested, pause well ere ye dare 
To cope with a people, whose spirits and feeling 

Are roused by remembrance, and steeled by despair. 

Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw [them ; 

The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confined 
But presume not again to give freemen a law. 

Nor think vdth the chains they have broken to bind them. 

To heights by the beacons of Liberty lightened. 

They're a scorn who come up her young eagles to tame : 

And to swords, that her sons for the battle have brightened, 
The hosts of a king are as flax to a flame. 



LESSON CXLL 

^rhe Three Warnings. — Mrs. Thrale. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least walling still to quit the ground. 
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages, 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that, in our latter stages, 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
23^ 



270 NATIONAL READER. 

This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail. 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay 
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the joc'und groom 
With him into another room ; 
And, looking grave, "You must," says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 

" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
With you !" the hapless husband cried; 
" Young as I am ? 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go, 
This is my wedding-night, you know." 

What more he urged I have not heard : 
His reasons could not well be stronger : 

So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 

Yet, calling up a serious look, — 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, — 
" Neighbour," he said, " farewell ! no more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation. 
And fit you for your future station. 
Three several warnings you shall have. 
Before you're summoned to the grave. 
Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey. 

And grant a kind reprieve, 
In hopes you'll have no more to say. 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased, the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted, perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wisely, — and how well 
It pleased him, in his prosperous course, 
To smoke his pipe, and pat his horse, — 

The willing muse shall tell : — 



NATIONAL READER. 271 

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old, 

Nor thought of Death as near ; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But, while he viewed his wealth increase,-^- 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, — 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 

And now, one night, in musing mood, 
As all alone he sate. 
The unwelcome messenger of fate 

Once more before him stood. 

Half killed with anger and surprise, 
^^ So soon returned !" old Dobson cries, 

" So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : 
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest : 

Since I was here before 
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least. 

And you are now fourscore." 

" So much the worse !" the clown rejoined : 
" To spare the aged would be kind : 
Besides, you promised me three warnings. 
Which I have looked for nights and mornings." 

" I know," cries Death, " that, at the best, 
I seldom am a w^elcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable : 
Your years have run to a great length : 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength." 

" Hold !" says the farmer, " not so fast : 
I have been lame these four years past." 

" And no great wonder," Death replies : 
" However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends." 
" Perhaps," says Dobson, " so it might ; 
But latterly I've lost my sight." 



272 NATIONAL READER. 

" This is a shocking story, faith ; 
Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death : 
" Each strives your sadness to amuse : 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

"There's none," cries he; "and, if there were, 
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 

" These are unreasonable yearnings : 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 

You've had your three sufficient warnings : 
So come along ; no more we'll part." 
He said, and touched him with his dart : 
And now old Dobson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate so ends my tale. 



LESSON CXLIL 

The Mariner''s Dream. — Dimond. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay. 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gayly covered with flowers. 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; — 

Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 



NATIONAL READER. 2T3 

' The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
I Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er ; 

I And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 

" God ! thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now larums his ear ? 
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky ! 

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck — 
Amazement confronts him with images dire — 

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck— 
The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : 
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave ! 

sailor boy ! wo to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ? 

sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; 

Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be. 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 

And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye : — 
sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 



274 ^ NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON CXLIIL 

Ahsahm. — Willis. 

The waters slept. Niglit's silvery veil hung low 
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
. Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
The reeds bent down the stre?.m : the willow leaves, 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way , 
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest^ 
How strikingl}^ the course of nature tells, 
By its light heed of human suffering, /" 

That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 

King David's limbs were vreary. He had fied 
From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
With his faint people, for a little rest 
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
And the poor common words of courtesy* 
Are such a very mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
He prayed for Israel ; and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those 
Whose love had been his shield ; and his deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
The proud, bright being, who had burst away, 
In all his princely beauty, to defy.' 
The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, 
In agony that would not be controlled, 

* Pron. curt-e-sy. 




JNATIONAL READER. 216 

Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 

* # * * # 

The pall was settled. He who sler' -'^ath 
Was straightened for the grave ; a folds 

Sunk to the still proportions, the^ 
The matchless symmetry of Ab? 
His hair was yet unshorn, and .s 

Were floating round the tasse^ iwayed 

To the admitted air, as gloss- 
As when, in hours of ge . , bathing 
The snowy fingers o^ 

His helm was at h' .r, soiled 

With ♦ ailing th .em, >, as laid, 

d^hf .id the jewelled hilt, 

i-^^ .e passage of his blade, 

ij, on his covered brow. 
^ cUe king trod to and fro, 

arb of battle ; and their chief, 
./ Joab, stood beside the bier, 
-.ed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
1 he feared the slumberer might stir. 

/low step startled him. He grasped his blade 
if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
Of David entered, and he gave command. 
In a low tone, to his few followers. 
And left him with his dead. The king stood still 
Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child. 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of wo : — 






" Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should'st die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

Ind leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 

w could he mark thee for the silent tomb. 
My proud boy Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son I and I am chill. 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee. 



276 NATIONAL READEgr. ^ ^'f'^- 

And hear thy sweet " my father'''' from thes^-d^b 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds iiung ; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

"And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How mil its love for thee, as I depart. 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give the^ up. 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee : — 

And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home. 
My erring Absalom !" 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child : then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
And, as a strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently, and left him there. 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



I 




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